The Door of Souls
by Poisonberries
Summary: Lost in the Rift, the warriors of 012 are on the run from gods old and new. As they stumble over delirious landscapes and desolate truths, the Door of Souls is their only chance to find home. But what will it cost to open? Pairings develop. Post 012. Canon compliant for all main games. Disregards "Lightning Returns". Alt-canon XIII-2.
1. Prologue: In the Desert, a Game of Chess

**Summary:** Lost in the Rift, the warriors of 012 are on the run from gods old and new. As they stumble over delirious landscapes and desolate truths, the door of souls is their only chance to find home. But what will it cost to open? Post 012. Pairings will develop. Some expected, some less so. Note that while this is filed under Lightning as a main character, it's an ensemble cast.

**Setting** Takes place immediately post 012, with Cosmos being purified inside Shinryu.

**Length: **Plus (this) prologue, between 12 and 15 chapters.

**Warnings et al: **Spoilers for everything. Dissidia, IV through XIII-2, with links to the XIII universe generally. Not explicit, but heavily thematic and _definitely_ for grownups. Also: pulp and angst and naughty bits and meta (oh my meta! And crossover!meta) prevail, so be warned if that's not your cup of tea. That's my one warning – everything else is fair play.

**Legal:** Square, if you really want to sue me for this really, what are your damages? Plus you own everything.

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><p>"Am I not a little unhinged already? I doubt it." – Samuel Beckett, <em>Play.<em>

* * *

><p><span>Prologue:<span> In the Desert, A Game of Chess.

_Do you remember?_

_In the beginning, you had another name. In the morning of our wedding, I spoke it to the dawn, as is the way of the Lufaine. In the night of our wedding, I whispered it to the swell of your breast, as is the right of a husband. Once, the word fit so easily into my mouth, along with all the other things that a…man is called on to say. Words like "I love you", or "my son", or "please, don't harm my family."_

_A long time ago, I said them all. When I had lips to speak words, or flesh to suffer wounds or even desires, so to speak of._

_It was a deeply trivial time._

_And your name, your name is Cosmos now. It is a better name for one such as you, don't you think? Perfect congruence in a single word. Harmony unblemished: serene, indifferent, limitless._

_But still, this is a mistake. This, now, is not how it's supposed to be. Should the dragon be appraised, his wrath shall be absolute._

_The fault is partially mine. I fear the release of my experiments has had a series of unintended consequences._

_A confound is introduced, and the phenomenon under investigation no longer submits to analysis. An iterative interrogation of human nature dissolves into a theater of the absurd, and then finally, to dust._

_Yes, their presence in this world is__** my**__ folly. What you have set into motion here is yours._

_I speak all of this to you in your short slumber, so you cannot answer. But Cosmos, I do not know what you sought to accomplish here, who you were attempting to protect. You have seen these very warriors purified time and time again, watched in your grace as they burned and broke and were created anew._

_Once, you even thought it quite beautiful. The first time, you smiled. _

_So the question must be asked._

_Why Cosmos? Why did you do this __**now**__? And do you even know what you've done? I doubt it. Your sight was always so short._

_You should be advised that you've accomplished nothing. Your power was insufficient, and the 'souls', as you always called them, of these avatars merely cling to the door of the Rift. I can hear them whimper, neither finally at rest nor strong enough to be returned._

_Even with all the gifts you gave them, my once bride of light, they are wraiths. Do you not hear them? You were always sensitive to the cries of children._

_There is no question that if they are left like this, they shall go mad. But then, what are six more mad voices, in a chorus of the insane? Nothing perhaps, to me. But in the absence of other evidence, I deduce they must have meant something to you._

_Occam's razor is the truest of all possible blades._

_I can come to no other conclusion than that you were making a request of me. We have grown apart, we two, but I believe I know what you want me to do._

_Very well Cosmos. For the time that I once loved you, then very well. I shall call the favor. I will ask her to do this for you, but you must know that she will exact her own price, when the time is right._

_I can pry the Rift wide enough to allow them passage. I will lend them strength enough to chance the journey._

_Etro's door of souls opens._

_Gaze upon it if you wish, but know to shield your eyes._

* * *

><p>Somewhere, Kain Highwind wakes up.<p>

The atmosphere around him is dry and gritty. He wants to sleep, but light - _too much light_ - scratches his eyes. He feels like he should be remembering, _remembering something_, but he can't think. His thoughts are aimless, Baron's Red and White Feast balloons, floating low and fat in an empty sky…

_Let's pop one mother, _Kain thinks. _Pop. PopPopPop! _

Orphan sounds rain against his perception, and then fall away into silence. His mouth is open, and any attempt to close it fails. Teeth don't fit together right, and a tongue that should sit flat on the bottom of his mouth is curled and swollen at the gate of his throat. He can't breathe. Or rather, he's breathing, but it doesn't quite work. His lungs burn and rattle, and there's so very little air...no matter how hard he sucks…there's only just a little…

There is burn pain and crush pain and the pain of laceration. If he tries to move, mouths of torn flesh gape and drool. Through slitted eyes he sees his right hand is destroyed, a wreckage of bone and fingers angled in all the wrong directions, but it's still nothing, really, compared with all the blood.

There is a lot of blood.

Now that he thinks about it, he can feel it, and it's coming from everywhere. Nostrils, abdomen, left thigh, groin. With each weakening beat of his heart, open arteries deflate. Hot wetness soaks through his doublet and pools between his armor and his skin, and it has currents and tides that breach the joints of his vambraces, ooze through the gousset joining cuirass to cuisse. And when it leaks from his gauntlets and soaks his scar-ruined hands, it looks like little dragons are breathing fire.

_Just like in a fairy tale…Cecil used to like fairy tales…We told each other __**such **__stories…Harvey and I…._

He's incoherent. There's no strength, for anything. To stand, to see, to speak. He is dying. He should be dead already.

"Kain. _Kain._" It's a nice voice that's calling him. Strong and female. Through a gaze descending into tear-softened blackness, he sees a cascade of red fabric. It's torn and stained with blood and carbon.

The scent of roses wafts through shattered nostrils.

_Rosa, is that you?_ Kain struggles to move through an electric storm of pain. He can't tell if it's true, but his heart lurches anyway. _There_, he was never fit to touch her hand, but perhaps now, she has finally come to find him, to bear him back to Baron at last.

"_Old friend, how we've missed you…" _he thinks she might say. And then she'd kneel to tend him, and the robes of the Queen of his homeland would brush his face.

"_I __**saved **__him this time Rosa. This time, I wasn't so damnably __**weak**__," _he would reply, and mean it, and finally know that he is worthy and valiant and strong and does not need her anymore.

"Oh! Oh no…"

Another voice. _Rydia?_ It would be nice to see her again, too. So nice, to see them all. He doesn't know why he stayed away for so long. Or why and from whom he's still asking forgiveness.

The world is going slow and still. He's sad he can't see the sky. And he wishes the voices would stop now, because he's trying to sleep.

"Somebody take off that helmet! He can't breathe!"

"Laguna. That's _not_ the problem! He's _bleeding _to death."

_Oh_, Kain thinks, unsurprised. _That seems fine._ For some reason, he doesn't care. The high spires of Baron are calling him, and Rydia has come to lay his hair in braids like a man of honor, and Rosa is here to lead him back to summer, and it has been so, so long…

"Shit, that hand. Light, that's a massive crush…"

"We're going to lose him. Yuna, help me. This is going to take _both _of us…"

It's then that Kain feels someone lift his head. There are hands pulling his helmet away, and he feels the wind against his face for the first time in a century. They angle him up, and the fresh blood that was pooling behind his septum pours from his nostrils, bubbles over the older blood that has dried on decimated lips and drips in long, mucous-sticky ropes from his chin.

He can't force his eyes to focus on anything. Defeated, they roll back into his skull. The light is finally fading.

"Kain, you ass. Don't you _dare_ die on me_._"

Four hands press into arbitrary points in his body. And wet, nourishing white magic flows through him, trying to close over leaking guts and split entera. He feels the tiny bones in his hand attempt to fuse, but the magic can't hold onto anything. Like a swift wind, it blows right through the hollows of his broken body. Bones stay shattered, the septic tear in his stomach still weeps and a part of him is satisfied at that.

He will finally get to go home.

_It's well, really, _Kain thinks._ I would very much like to see the city, again. _

"_But it's not __**time**__ yet,"_ sounds a cold voice in his mind. He can't tell if it's his own delirium or another mocking god. Either way, its will is absolute. _"That is__** not**__ your path home, dragoon."_

_And why not?_

"_Because she wills it. Because I say. Now arise, Sir Knight." _

And so with terrifying obedience, Kain bolts upright, only to double over again as whoever is healing him pours more force into the spells. The fingers of the magic find a seam in his skin to hold onto, and fold flesh over flesh until the wound in his stomach is closed and its poison drained; until collapsed sinuses re-wall, and there is oxygen in his nostrils, in his lungs, in the clean, new blood the magic has somehow conjured from nothing. There are bones in his right hand again. He can clench his fist around the neck of his spear. The world around him begins to spin again, to articulate and sharpen.

Kain's eyes refocus. Reality crashes against his shores. He remembers everything now, even though he's desperate not to.

The shriek of steel on steel, and Laguna's magazines finally empty.

The air quivering with the electric distortion of magic and Yuna slumped over her staff, unyielding, undancing, unmoving.

Tifa's quiet smile crushed from her face. Vaan lost to the skies. And Lightning…no. _Lightning…_

Except there she is. As inanely, stupidly alive as he is. And Yuna and Laguna too.

_What? _As Kain notes his surroundings, he feels sick. The realization sits on his mind, its implications brutal and mocking. He tried so hard to die a good, clean death. And failed. Again. Another loss in a game he keeps losing. _How?_

Panicked, he tries to stand and can't, crashing to earth in a cloud of what seems like sand. Its grit under his palms makes no sense, and he thrashes left and right, his eyes desperate for a familiar horizon. He finds none. After a long, quiet moment, arms that bear the strength and delicacy of wrought iron come around him and help him to his feet. From behind, another softer pair of hands brush blood soaked hair from his eyes, and the full realization of where he is, where they are, seeps into his mind.

Desert. The world Kain sees in front of him is desert. Sand on sky on bright on flat. And yet it's not quite a desert either. They stand on an island of sand hovering in a in a vast sea of nothingness. Above and below and beside them other islands drift, periodically breaking apart, periodically fusing together. A wasteland in three dimensions.

In the airless sky between, vultures take wing.

"Lightning," Kain says, wiping the dried blood from his lips. She is standing beside him, her arms caged around his waist. As her gaze flits up to acknowledge him, he notes the dirt caked on her delicate features, the scabrous burns that lace her arms. She nods, as if to say, _We're here, it's alright. _But it isn't. It isn't alright at all. Tearing his eyes from her face, he notices Laguna beside him, his left arm in a sling and his good right holding up an exhausted, ashen Yuna.

Violently, Kain curses the magic coursing through his veins. They've all suffered so much. And they wasted their strength on _him_. Guilt, as familiar to him as his own voice, cackles at him from the corners of his mind.

When Kain finally sets foot in the quicksand-silence, he can't keep the tremble from his voice. He locks gazes with Lagnua, whose careful smile is betrayed in every way by the slump in his shoulders, the edge in his eyes.

"My friend. Where are we? Where are the others? Why are we still alive?"

* * *

><p><em>It's not that I don't remember. If there is one thing I do not lack for, my once and dead husband, it's memory. Perhaps I don't remember as much as you anymore. But what I remember, I remember well.<em>

_You are speaking to me now as if I cannot hear you. But the dragon's light is a living light, and while I am trapped here, I can share in his true omniscience. Once I am returned to my shell, I suspect I will be depleted of both knowledge and strength, but for now, I can listen. I can know your mind, or what is left of it._

_Why do you ask why I did what I have done? The answer should be obvious. You always prided yourself on the length of your sight, but you never could see what was before you._

_I am tired. I wish an end. At the time of our agreement, I did not know how long forever was. New power loves itself dearly, and dreams only dreams of endlessness. And oh, how I __**dreamed**__. How I dreamed that somehow through this perversion, we could be together - we three - wife and husband and son, as once we were. That my infant godhood would give me the chance to right that singular, insignificant wrong._

_I suppose new power is much like new love in its omnipotence. Or, at least that's what I remember new love to be. Now, I truly know only grief. You are right in this one matter. We have made this world a theatre of the absurd indeed, and the subject that we mock and replay and reiterate is that grief. The script of our mourning is thin with repetition. Although you never saw it that way. To your mind, it was always an experiment. A scientific method to bisect a metaphysical duality. Harmony and discord, peace and power, the balance that consumes itself._

_Oh my forgotten love. How brilliant you were. How mad. How very great a fool. _

_But I am not like you. I was never really like you. Our love was broken mirrors. We loved each other only by fracture. And the fruit of our union, if so he could be called, was doomed to be as broken as we. I know this now, by watching __**him**__. He who you sent unto this world like some infinite jest. He is as determined as you. As narrow and foolish and prideful. And yet just like for you, I was destined to die for him. _

_In many ways, we are both incapable of correcting our mistakes. _

_It was, perhaps, inevitable that we would come to this. It is not inevitable that we stay here._

_I am bringing this to an end now, Cid-that-was. And the warriors I have asked you to send through Etro's door have cleared the stage for me to do so. The light I gave them is a gift, of sorts, to light their way home. A use for the crystals they cannot join to the dagger I will run through the heart of our son. _

_The part of me that remains a woman hopes they do not despise me for that as well. _

_The part of me that remains a woman hopes our son will forgive me, for what I must do. _

_But there's only a small part of her left now. So the regret is not so great, after all._

_I can feel the dragon search my mind now. I must stop thinking on this or he will know. And the time is coming anyway, when he will slip my soul back into its shell, and I shall have to discover my resolve anew. But how I long for a voice to ask you this and a moment for you to reply. For the time that I once loved you, I would bid you answer. _

_This name of mine, what was it?_

* * *

><p>It's Laguna's idea to send out a scout to look for Tifa and Vaan. It's Yuna's idea to send <em>Bahamut<em>.

Kain is lying collapsed in the sand behind the rest of the group, his half-closed wounds still leaking blood. But even though pain coats his senses like the dull edges of sleep, he can't help but be amazed at what he sees; how it both is and is not like all the summons he has witnessed. When Rydia beckons the Feymarch, it's an act of unbridled domination. She clenches her fist, and the magic comes to heel around her. She opens her palms, and the Lord of all Waters replies. Rydia has atoms of storm in her blood and the forces of gravity in her hands, and when she brings her power to bear Kain knows that there is no sovereign in any world to equal her majesty.

But yet. If Rydia is the power of the Call, then Yuna is the beauty. The angle of her body as she arches her staff above her head is the twist of a ribbon in the wind. Summoning light the color of a golden afternoon is a woven skirt at her waist that spins when she spins. Green and blue eyes alight with gleam, and her arms as they turn are garlanded with bright.

It's as astonishing a thing as Kain has ever seen, and, for some reason, as sad.

_Dry your eyes, my Lady_, he wants to say, but doesn't, because he knows it won't help. Whatever troubles her is far beyond the reach of words.

There is no music, but yes, Yuna's dancing. And Kain would be reminded of angels if Bahamut didn't appear through a patterned tear in the sky to remind him of gods. He breaks the atmosphere with his coming, and even Yuna is pushed a few steps back as the force of the magic conjures wind from airlessness, sends lightning careening through impossible clouds.

"Well met, Hallowed Father," Kain offers in greeting.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kain sees Lightning bow her head in something like mourning and he wonders, for what seems like the thousandth time, what exactly connects all of them so deeply. Why what lends Yuna such grace should cause Lightning such grief, and why what shakes his core in awe seems to snap Laguna's head in fear. It's contradiction and concordance, and while it taunts his mind like a word on the tip of his tongue, Kain doesn't know whether ultimately, it means anything at all.

He wouldn't wager either way. He's gambled everything he has and discovered, for his trouble, he's no master at dice.

And so they watch Bahamut descend through the yawning sky to land in front of Yuna. If Kain weren't so delirious, he would swear he saw the First Sire of Dragons tilt his head in respect.

"Will you help us find them?" she asks when he's close enough to touch. In deference, she averts her eyes. "Please."

"_We will, Summoner" _the soundless voice echoes in Kain's mind like thunder, and he knows by the way that Lighting and Laguna press their hands to their ears that they can hear it too. "_We can still dream here, in this Rift of Worlds, even though our dreaming is ended. And so we will help you, Spira's daughter, where we can."_

"Thank you," Yuna bows. "Thank you so much."

"_It is we who are thankful,"_ the voice in Kain's mind is both gentle and terrible, filled with a calm prescience that yanks his soul in dread. "_But beware Yuna, and beware your companions. Here, we are not the Lord of Dragons. Although we will try to keep __**him**__ from you, if it is possible."_

"What do you mean?" Yuna asks, but Bahamut is in flight before the words are out of her mouth. In his wake, there is only silence and a brisk, confused trade in glances between four disoriented souls who Kain is beginning to think are more like refugees than warriors of any kind.

Around them, the desert drifts, indifferent.

"Ok. Now that _that's _over and done with," Laguna finally says. "Does anybody have _any_ idea what that was all about? Or what the _fuck_ kind of dragon could be worse than a giant, mega-flare happy rogue GF?"

Lightning looks away. Yuna looks down. And for once Kain doesn't search the sky for his answers.

In the sand-scoured air between them, the question simply lingers, limp and quiet and dull.


	2. CI: This Discontented Darkness

Chapter I: This Discontented Darkness

**Warning: **Get a coffee, this is long – damn groundwork. Also it's violent and interior and a tad glum, so be advised.

**Legal: **_Ibid, _in prologue.

**Note to the clever:** Lack of access to certain spells and a discussion of magic in the Rift in general is plot relevant and explored later. Just trust me :)

* * *

><p>"Perhaps the immobility of the things that surround us is forced upon them by our conviction that they are themselves, and not anything else, and by the immobility of our conceptions of them. For it always happened that when I awoke like this, and my mind struggled in an unsuccessful attempt to discover where I was, everything would be moving round me through the darkness: things, places, years."<p>

- Marcel Proust, _Swann's Way._

* * *

><p>"<em>You trust your eyes too much, girl."<em>

Just like her memory of anything else, Tifa Lockheart's recollection of Master Zangan isn't in one piece. Detached bits of him float through her mind. A crinkled-skin wink. A Cheshire-cat smile. A warm, barking voice, telling her things. How to fall, how to block, and _how many times do I have to tell you, aim for the knee not the __**gut, **__Tifa!_

Zangan was always clever that way. Tactical. Do the most damage with the least amount of work.

Tifa smiles. _His hands always smelled like leather_. And strangely enough it's_ that_ memory, really, that binds everything else together. The disconnected words, the fragments of kindly, wrinkled face, the wink. Smash them all together with that dense, sweaty-earth scent and her mind can call the whole thing "Zangan," and things almost make sense again. Warm feelings flood her, and somehow she feels like she isn't alone, in the dark, in who-the-hell-knows where.

Like she is right now.

Yes, wherever she is, it's really effing dark. Dark like she can't see an inch in front of her face. Dark like she can't tell if she's right-side up or sideways-wrong because there's no light to tell her where her hands are, where her body is, whether she's on solid ground or at the edge of a cliff.

Tifa doesn't feel like she's blind. She feels like she's eyeless. And – _Oh Cosmos, Oh __**fuck**_ – it freaks her out.

Words she doesn't understand slither into her mind. _Mako-eyes,_ she thinks._ Mako-eyes glow in the dark. _

She wishes she knew why the thought tightens her throat, chokes her breath, gnaws on raw nerves.

Her heartbeat is a wild thing in her chest. Warmth crawls down her spine and it has tiny, articulated legs that nauseate her. And suddenly, even though she knows there must be _something_ underneath her holding her up, she feels like she's falling, or spinning, or suspended somewhere warm and wet and filled with alien cells…

_Stop._

"_Eye'll __**lie**__ to you Tifa." _ Zangans' voice again, caging her terror."_You gotta trust your other senses. Your body knows itself. Always will."_

"Okay then," Tifa whispers. She closes her eyes, replacing the mutating, fungal black with the familiar biology of warm lids sliding over sclera and iris and pupil. Taking a long, full drag of mineral-tasting air, she forces her body to remember itself.

_Concentrate. _

Right. Fine. So there's pain in her knees, and it's dull and throbbing but nothing serious. More like she just fell off her bike. She clenches a fist and the skin over her knuckles tightens and then splits a little – _shit – _but again, not so bad. She rolls her shoulders and everything works as she expects, as she remembers it should. Her arms are obedient and extend on command. Toes are still in a line, and eminently wiggle-able. She's alive and in one piece, more or less. Exhaling some of the air she sucked in, she feels a smirk touch her lips. It's not much maybe, but it's still a win, and for now, Tifa will take what she can get.

_Okay. Body parts, check. Now __**where**_?

Closing her eyes tighter, Tifa sends the palms of her hands in a limited patrol around her body. Beneath her fingers is wet stone. _But it's not like it's __**usually**__ wet_, she thinks, because it's not _smooth._ It's gritty and crumbly. Old stone, she's sure, and evenly cut. The depressions between them sometimes feel bumpy and unyielding, like cement. Other times they feel soft and pliant and a little fuzzy, like moss. She inhales, and the scent that insinuates itself into the folds of her mind is fresher than she expects, and isn't dusty or anything. It reminds her a little bit of the smell of bitten apples.

Wherever she is, human hands made it, Tifa reasons. So it must have hallways and chambers, and a layout that makes some kind of sense, and it probably shouldn't have arbitrary cliffs all over the place. She hopes anyway. _One way to find out. _Bracing her hands against the floor, she pushes up, commands wobbly, coltish legs to stand.

Except - _Oh __**crap**__ – _it doesn't work. Tifa's arms make the assumption that there will be a wall to support her and there isn't. Leaning on the empty air, she pulls herself off balance and tumbles back to the ground in a heap. Pain that was dull flashes sharp and angry, and she feels the flesh on her palms split to match the tears in her knuckles. She bites her bottom lip against a scream, presses her teeth into soft flesh until it blooms tiny, salty flowers of blood. It _hurts, _but it's good. The metallic taste of dead, flappy lip-skin under her tongue helps her force down the fear that's still bubbling in her stomach.

_Try again Tifa. Get up_. She needs to get up or she'll just sit here and this fear will hollow her out. It will eat her, and she'll be completely lost and she won't be able to find her _friends _and she'll be trapped here. Alone. And she can't…she won't survive that way _so get. Up. Tifa__**.**_

_Count_, she thinks. Zangan taught her to count. Be patient. Fear is natural, so let it wash over you. Just try not to drown.

_Ten. _It really is a matter of trusting her body to know what to do. _Nine. _In the darkness, the problem is that nothing feels certain. _Eight. _Everything is part shape, part _decision_. _Seven. _Blurry-edged silhouettes gesture towards their own identity, and then it's really a choice, what they are. _Six. _Tifa balls her fists. _Five. _If she can bounce back from a fall with her eyes closed, she can do it in the dark. _Four. _ _There's no real difference anyway_. _Three._ She steels herself. _Two. You know what to do. _

_One. _

Tifa stops thinking, lets her body take over. Instead of grasping for support that isn't there, she curls her spine, pretends that Zangan just knocked her down. She swings her legs in front of her. Her spine curls. The muscles in her abdominal column bunch and roll and power her forward in a front flip that is so easy and automatic for her that she's on her feet before she even realizes what she's done. The force of impact through her legs is a beautiful thing. It reassures her muscles, tells her she's on solid ground.

_Good. Now for walking. _

Knotting her brows, Tifa scowls. This is going to be the tricky part. Sweeping her foot out in front of her, Tifa tests the stability of the world around her. The area immediately in front of her seems fine, but as she turns in a circle, interrogates the ground for signs of weakness, she feels something crumble behind her and to her left. The floor gives way, and the sound of pebbles grating against heavier stone on their way down to somewhere _really_ far spiders through her nerves and into her stomach. She yanks her leg back, dances in the opposite direction. _So much for probably no cliffs._

_Shit, shit, __**shit.**_

The terror that Tifa wrestled to ground kicks her feet from underneath her. She doesn't know what to do. She's completely stuck. There are traps everywhere and at this rate, she won't get anywhere.

_I'm going to die here._ She's panicking._ Stop __**thinking**__ like that, Tifa._ She's arguing with herself. And even though she keeps telling herself she's not going down this way, her body is wracked with trembling she can't control anymore, and there are scratching noises shambling in the distance – _or are they right in front of me – _that make her certain she's sharing this blackness with something that's going to kill her and take its time doing it.

The darkness winds its fingers down her throat. She can't breathe. She really can't _breathe_.

Frantic for control, Tifa crosses her hands over her upper arms, runs her fingers down the sides of her body, trying to reassure herself that yes, she's still here, and no, she's not done yet. Her hands float over frayed cloth, suspenders that are wet with something she can't identify – _oh please, please be water – _pockets….Wait. _Pockets._ Pockets with things in them. Like matches. She fumbles through collected debris until she finds what she's looking for, dampish cardboard with raised letters that she thinks read…_Seventh something?_

Despite herself, Tifa almost laughs. All this time, and light was right there. She would compare her relief to something beautiful, but she's too drunk with it to think. With trembling fingers, she pulls the book open, finds a slender stick and strikes. Rusty ochre light sparks in front of her and her pupils retreat painfully into her irises but she can finally see. Everything's fuzzy and shattered with various degrees of shadow, but she can make things out. Mossy pillars and gates ornamented with the prettiest designs and nonsense words she can't quite read…

"Lindzei?" she mutters, squinting. The word is chewy and strange in her mouth, but that doesn't matter. Because suddenly, horribly, she knows where those sounds were coming from.

A manikin. It's not facing her but it's here. And the yellow flame that's racing down the neck of the match spits dim, pathetic light into the flat facets of the thing's enormous sword. Alerted by the sharp intake of breath Tifa can't stop herself from taking, it turns around. And in its eyes are sick little circles that cut the dark with their own poisoned glow.

_Mako eyes. Mako eyes glow in the dark. _

Tifa feels sick. She knows what the words mean now. And she knows – finally – who this disgusting mockery is a copy of and not because he'd rescued her so many months before. But because she's known him _all _her life. Because he's…he's…

_Oh Cloud._ _I remember now. It's all there. Why did you…?_

Tifa feels her heart break, and it's sad because it doesn't seem new at all. It's like something is filling her chest and if she could choose a word to describe how she felt, it would probably be _whole._ Because this feeling seems so _normal,_ so much more like how she must have felt, when she was home.

She misses him. She's always missing him. And as she dodges a whirling strike from that impossible sword, all the fear is gone. It's sorrow now, and it punches her hard in the gut.

The thing fixes her with its crystal-dead mako eyes and although she's killed this very creature a hundred times before, for some reason her hands are still. And she's more alone now than she was in the dark.

_Oh please no._

Tifa drops the match or it burns out. And there's no telling if what pushes her back that single step and over the cliff is the momentum from the blow she's not dodging or the force of her own too-familiar pain.

Screaming, Tifa Lockheart falls.

* * *

><p>It's not that Laguna is <em>annoyed<em>, per se. He prides himself on taking things more or less in stride. _War of the gods? Sure, roll with the punches. Painful death-by-manikin-hacking? Not fun, but for a good cause. Resurrected life as a nomad in a weird floating desert? Didn't really have __**other**__ plans… _ And at the end of the day, really, he's all for supply manifests, and protocol-perfect provisioning and terrain assessment and all that good stuff. But there are times – like _now_, for example – when it's night, and sand is clogging his throat, and _by far _the best answer to basically any question is sleep, that he thinks Lightning Farron takes things a bit too far.

And by a bit, he means, well, _too far. _

"Laguna," she calls over to him. "I need your help."

Kneeling in front of their camp-fire, Lightning is sorting their remaining supplies and small firearms into piles on the burnt-out back of her overcoat. Ash darkens her face, and its textured, gun-smoke grey is braille against the softer, smoother dark of night.

She looks grim, but then she always looks grim. _Then again, sorting through a pile of crap for an hour'd put anyone in a bad mood._

"_Laguna,_" Lightning repeats, not looking up. The clink of glass against metal is a thin, bright thing that tinkles against the bulk of the starless night.

Laguna sighs and spits the grit from his mouth as he makes his way over to her. Looking down at what Lightning's managed to collect, he whistles through his teeth, shakes his head. It's such a sad collection of bits and pieces – broken magazine casings and bore brushes, a few half-shattered bottles of this and that, a sand-gummed .44 revolver – Laguna almost feels _worse_ looking at it.

The break in his arm burns and throbs, and while he knows the chances of finding painkillers in that pile of junk are slim, maybe there's something else in there he can use. _C'mon Cosmos, cut a guy some slack. _He leans in closer, searching the mess for a very particular flask containing some_ very _particular Esthari whiskey– _not the smartest move in the desert, but what the hell – _but then nothing. And then more nothing. _Shit._

Yes. He _does _feel worse.

Laguna sighs. It seems unfair that the only things that came with them to this place are either halfway broken or all-the-way broken or broken beyond recognition. _But at least we're still alive. Got that much to be grateful for, at least. _

Running his good hand through the limp curtain of his hair, Laguna squints into the distance. For a moment, he just watches as snakes of sand sidewind and twist in the coffee-black darkness, as if hunting.

Lightning snaps her fingers in Laguna's ear. "Hey. You. Focus. We need an inventory. Potions?"

"_One_," he sighs, turning his attention back to the piles and tossing a half shattered phial of something into the night-blackened desert. _And not the one I want…_

"Elixirs?"

Laguna laughs, casts a pointed glance to where Yuna is sheltered in the beaten flap of their only tent, carefully suturing Kain's weeping lacerations. The stead ooze of his blood paints her articulate fingers with slick, reddish shadow.

"You're _kidding_, right?"

"Rations?"

"Four days' worth, _maybe_. If we cut our exertion. All sealed nutri-packs. Taste like braised dirt."

Lightning clicks her tongue against the top of her mouth. "Hydrolytics?"

"Hydro-what-ics?"

"_Hydration _tabs, Laguna."

"Do ice cubes count? No, wait, we don't have any of those either."

"Tents?" Lightning's voice tightens. "Cottages?"

"Light, really?" Laguna's patience is frayed to threads, and he's tired and hungry and _cold _and this is a waste of time if he's ever experienced one. "How about I make both our lives a little easier. We've got nothing. Nada. Zip. The clothes on our back. Oh, and Yuna's sewing kit. My inimitable charm. Your sense of humor. "

Lightning sits back, doesn't rise to the joke. Her eyes are fixed on the other desert islands that hover overhead, surreal clouds in a nonsense sky. "We still have to keep organized, Laguna."

Fidgeting with his splint, Laguna smirks. "I wouldn't say it's _organization_, we're missing. It's, you know, _gear._ And a map. And – "

"Tifa," Lightning cuts in. "_Vaan_?" She's all accusatory angles when she looks at him. A sharp chin rests on steepled fingers; burn-embroidered elbows balance on raised knees.

Laguna deflates a little but doesn't let the smile flee his lips. If they lose morale this early, there's not much hope for them. _Not much hope for us anyway,_ a snide voice in his mind quips, but he ignores it.

"We'll find them, my glowering friend. What's better than search and rescue by _dragon_?" he offers a wink to Yuna who halts her stitching to smile in reply. "Fast, powerful, travels by thunder_._ Couldn't be more efficient really, provided it doesn't, well, _eat_ you." Laguna pauses, rolls the thought around in his mind. "Hey, what _do_ those things eat anyway?"

"Disrespectful fools." Kain drawls, his eyes closed. He speaks with the voice of a man who isn't getting his entire torso sewn back together by inches, but Laguna can tell by his studied immobility that that he's in a glorious shit-storm of pain.

"Sir Kain," Yuna shakes her head, chiding. Pulling the trailing thread of the last suture into a small square knot, she leans forward and breaks the excess off with her teeth. The snap leaves a small lash of blood on her upper lip. She wipes it away with a filthy sleeve.

"Oh don't worry about me Yuna," Laguna smiles a rakish half-smile. "If our honorable Sir Bastard has his mouth back, I think he'll probably live."

"Perhaps," Kain replies, laconic. Opening his eyes, he pauses a moment to survey the expert stitching on his ruined chest and grimaces a little when the stretch of his arms causes the sutures to pull at thin, fragile skin. But nevertheless, he seems impressed with the work, and his face is gentle when he inclines his head towards Yuna in thanks. "If so, I've the Lady to thank."

"Please. It's nothing," Yuna replies, a small smile hovering on her lips. "I'm glad I was able to help."

"Hardly nothing," Kain bows his head again before turning towards Laguna and Lightning. "I take it we've no plan." His hawkish face is etched with erratic patterns of grease and sand, and Laguna stifles a momentary surge of confusion. He's still not used to looking Kain in eyes that aren't the waxy red beads of his helm.

Laguna shrugs, lifts the revolver from the pile of debris and neatly snaps the cylinder open. Despite the cratering on the hammer and grip, the weapon feels good in his hand. Dense and certain and so comfortably _known_. He blows the sand from the chamber before answering. "Nope. Got even less plan than we do supplies."

"How reassuring."

"Well," Laguna flicks his wrist and the cylinder clicks obediently back into place. "If I had to come up with one off the top of my head, I'd say we need to find some sturdier shelter. We're not going to last long out here like this."

Lightning turns her head fractionally, exhales a short, thin laugh. "Really? Take you all night to think that one up, Loire?"

"Actually, just came up with it now Light." Laguna offers her a quicksilver smile that's both there and not there at all. "But seriously. Come morning we should think about splitting up. Someone needs to go off and find some water at least. I can go –"

"Not a chance," the soft amusement that lit Lightning's face a moment earlier resolves into familiar sharpness. "We're _not_ splitting up. And forgive me if I don't exactly trust your sense of direction."

"Light," Laguna knots his brows. "There's zero sense in all of us just charging off without someplace to _be_. This is 100% sandy desert. Heat-stroke, sandstorms, shifting terrain, the whole nine. You know and I know wandering around in this is suicide. We shouldn't even be _attempting_ to travel in daylight…"

For a moment Lightning is silent. She lifts her chin to drum her fingers together, slow and deliberate. A decision flickers over her expression, and Laguna wonders if he's actually managed to get her to _agree _with him. "Then _I'll_ go", she says finally. "Tonight. At the very least I can find my way out of –"

"You'll do no such thing," Kain interrupts. "Neither of you. We've no concept of what's out there and no means of reaching you should you lose your way. It's folly."

"No offense buddy," Laguna brings the sight of the revolver to his eye, looks through it at the brittle remains of what they have left. "But I've seen my fair share of mostly-dead guys, and you fit the bill pretty well. Seems to me that "folly" is dragging you through 15 feet high shifting sand dunes for no reason."

"I'm fine - "

"You're not fine, you're an idiot," Lightning cuts him off. "I don't want to leave anyone behind any more than you do, but Laguna's got a point."

"I do?" Laguna arches a brow, lets the sweet taste of a small victory lift his worry. _Laguna one, Lightning one-fifty, but whatever. _"Aw, Light. That's sweet."

Kain talks through him, addressing Lightning in lofty, level tones. "_Think_, Lightning. The night is pitch. How precisely do you plan to light your way? Or did you intend on casting a spell that flags you to the world?"

If Lightning registers the challenge it doesn't show on her face. "I can handle myself, Highwind."

"C'mon guys," Laguna raises his hands in mock surrender but then wishes he hadn't as pain sears through his broken arm. "Light, I don't think anyone's saying anything about what you can handle. Fact is, we need water and provisions and permanent shelter or we're completely screwed out here. Now I'm open to suggestions. Preferably ones that don't involve needless pain or dying. Any takers?"

A dull quiet settles into the camp, disturbed only by the shearing noise of ripping fabric as Yuna tears her sleeves into neat bandages. In the soft glow of the fire, Kain and Lightning trade quick, negotiating glances that agree on nothing. The night air as it sweeps over them is infested by sand, and it's rough and granular and itchy.

_Guess not._

Laguna closes his eyes, presses his thumb against the hammer point of his revolver until he feels the skin indent. His arm hurts. It really, really hurts. _What I wouldn't give for a bed right now, a hot bath, a stiff drink. _He opens his mouth to say something, suggest something else, but whatever words he plans on saying are lost to the crack of thunder that erupts in the ether above them, to the telltale ozone tingle of magic as it prickles over his skin.

Yuna's head snaps up from her work, a graceful smile on her lips. _ Bahamut._ _Finally. _

Laguna's throat tightens. He doesn't _necessarily_ take Kain seriously when it comes to GF eating habits…but still. As Bahamut descends through the atmosphere he strangles his gun. He's pretty sure the "King of Dragons" can take a pistol shot, but it makes him feel better nonetheless.

_But wait, something's not right._

Before Laguna even realizes what he's doing, he's on his feet. Bahamut is descending erratically. _No _– _oh __**shit**_, he thinks,and the realization sends a cold shock down his spine – _that's not descending._ _That's crashing._

Everyone notices at once. "Scatter!" Lightning commands. "Now!"

Bahamut's vast bulk is on a tear through the atmosphere, and accelerating fast. Out of the corner of his eye, Laguna can seek the beast try to flap the torn shreds of its shattered rainbow wings. It billows, the broken flesh, like the ribbons of some broken kite. And while it looks a little like a model Esthari GF he'd once seen draft specs for, this version of the dragon is heavier, thicker, and its momentum seems unstoppable. Vaguely, Laguna wonders if it will shatter the earth, break whatever Hyne-fucked-sandy-hell-island they're on to pieces.

Laguna dives for cover, and he's completely lost track of where everyone else is. As he hits the ground he can feel the sharp edge of his broken humerus grind out of its setting and tear right through frail capillaries and frailer flesh. He thinks he can hear his gun crack off accidentally. He thinks he can hear himself shriek in pain. But in either case he can't be sure because the shallow, insignificant sounds of both are utterly drowned in the cries of the Lord of Dragons as he throttles from the sky, even he, a prisoner of gravity.

_When he falls, he falls like Lucifer, _he thinks inanely, an ancient line from an ancient play stalking its way into his mind. _Never to hope again…_

The force of the impact when Bahamut finally crashes into the ground shakes every bone, broken or not, in Laguna's body. He feels the tremors in his jaw, the vibrations in his face, and he's certain his eardrums are going to shatter. But even though the impact is among the most terrifying things Laguna has ever felt, it is also among the shortest. And after the initial crash, there is simply a sad, anti-climactic skid as what remains of Bahamut slides across the sand.

The fire is out. The darkness that follows is complete. The stillness, obscene.

There's a painful ringing in his ears when Laguna finally lifts his head. He's not sure he'll be able to hear the answer, but he calls out anyway. "Light? Kain? Yuna?"

"Here…" it's Lightning who answers, and her words are accompanied by a small, obedient fire spell she's summoned to the fingertips of her right hand. She's half-crouched in the desert, her free hand curled over Kain's left shoulder. The dragoon is writhing in the fetal position, one half of his face wedged deeply into the sand, and the other half twisted in a soundless, agonized scream.

_Great,_ Laguna thinks, rising. _And getting better by the second_. He knows by the blood curdling pain in his arm that he must be bleeding, and when he looks down at the sullen tongue of bone that slides through the torn lips of his skin, he feels like throwing up. He tries, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth are clumps of a saliva-wettened sand.

"Where's Yuna?" Laguna asks, limping towards his companions. But he needn't have asked. In the dim light of Lightning's fire spell, Laguna can see where he knew Yuna would be all along. Cradling Bahamut's black-blood-ruined skull in her lap as if it were the whole of the known universe.

Laguna analyses her face in the sickly orange dark, searching for tears. He sees none. But it doesn't matter. A part of him knows loss like an intimate friend, and it doesn't always have to be ornamented with tears.

"_We are sorry, Spira's daughter." _Laguna can hear the dragon's voice in his mind again, but it's faint, like the sound of water flowing through a drying stream. "_We were unable to find your companions."_

"Bahamut, no. Don't say sorry. Please allow me to heal you" Yuna's voice is soft but collected, and suddenly, looking at her, Laguna sees another face…

"_Save your strength, dear Yuna. You will require it."_

"I have enough," Yuna's cherishing hands are as steady as her voice. As dignified and proud. "I have _more_ than enough for you great Bahamut. Please. It would be my honor…"

"_No." _The voice is fading fast now. It's a part of the desert wind._ "We are…not yet gone from our dream. But we must warn you…"_

"Of what?"

"_**He **__is like Sin. Summoner eternal. In time, he too must be destroyed. We hope we can still dream, when that day arrives."_

"Who is _he_?" Yuna almost whispers into the Dragon King's ear, her head resting softly against his prolapsed eye ridge. "Pray tell us."

"_An abomination. We will not…poison our mouth with his name. But you must hide, Yuna. We have distracted him. He believes it is only we here, against his will. So hurry. Before you are seen."_

"But hurry where?"

"_Walk against what this place knows as a sun, our Yuna. You will find a path to one who will help you. We are tired now. We must rest. We will return to you, if we can."_ The dragon pauses, as if thinking._ "We will __**always **__return to you."_

Yuna wraps her arms around the great skull. "I know," she whispers, "I know."

It seems then as if Bahamut is dissolving underneath Yuna's fingertips in a riot of light. For a moment, the desert night is the exact opposite of itself. Filled with brightness so profound that Laguna, in a haze of pain, succumbs to the childish thought that there could never be such thing as darkness. That he imagined it, all along. But then he's gone, and Yuna is crumpled in purple and white origami folds in the sand, her hands filled with nothing but resurgent night.

Laguna pricks his ears and waits for the sound of weeping. When he doesn't hear it, he bites back against the pain of his arm, and with greatest reverence pulls her back up to her feet. She's soft under his arm, but her spine is firm, and somehow, Laguna remembers this too, in _her_. His tongue searches for her name, but it's lost.

He doesn't know wether the sadness he's feeling comes from the past or the present, but it's everywhere now, and even he can't find a smile to offer.

_I'm so sorry, Yuna,_ he thinks. _ I'm so sorry…_

After a second, Yuna dislodges herself from his grip and stands on her own two feet. When she turns to address them all in the feeble, remaining light of Lightning's fire spell, blue and green eyes remain dry and resolute.

"Everyone," she says. "I think…I think Bahamut meant we have travel the opposite direction of the sunrise. Which means…it means we should wake at dawn, get our bearings that way. And please, if no-one minds, let's just stay together."

Nobody raises argument, and silence returns to the desert as if it's the only thing it can tolerate, the only thing it has ever known.

* * *

><p>"Tifa. <em>Teefs.<em> Hey, you gotta get up now."

Inch by inch, somebody's voice fords its way into the mucky pool of Tifa's returning senses. It's a nice, clear voice, and she tries to grab its hand as she swims the rest of the way back into consciousness.

"Teefs, I know you're alive. And I completely blew my last six drops of potion on this, so c'mon. Please get up."

Cloud? _Oh __**please**__… _But no, couldn't be. _I…I…left him behind.._. Kain? Not a chance. He'd keel over before he called her "Teefs". Laguna? It's too _high…_more like a boy than a man…

"I even managed to scam something to eat. Well, sort of. I smacked this weird looking thing and cleaned it and kinda fried it with my torch…"

_That sounds __**disgusting**__,_ she thinks strangely. And yet for some reason it's the very oddness of the thought that slits the haze that squats on her brain, and suddenly Tifa's certain there's only one person she could be talking to.

"Vaan?" she asks, eyes fluttering open to – _oh thank goodness –_ruddy, nourishing torchlight that halos Vaan's face. "Is that you?"

Vaan lets out a whistling sigh of relief and sits back in an Indian position on the stone floor. "Man. You almost gave me a heart attack, Teefs. I mean, you were breathing and all, but you were _seriously_ lights out there."

"Yeah," Tifa replies, propping herself up on her elbows. "Guess I was." She expects her body to scream at her, to remind her of her fall with swelling and bleeding and the all-wrong angles of fracture, but there's nothing. There's no pain, at all. _How's that possible…? _She shakes her head and tries to focus but the thought abandons her, rises like poplar fluff into the wider skies of her confusion. "Where _are_ we?"

"Got me," Vaan shrugs. "No windows so we're underground, I think. Maybe some kinda ruins?"

Leaning forward over her knees, Tifa nods, lets the world seep back into her perception. Vaan looks bruised and his face is smeared with a nasty, leaky abrasion, but other than that, he's basically all there. Beside him, two small torches are wedged into a pile of brownish stone, and they light they cast warms the broken bones of a forgotten city. Vines cut intricate patterns in the shadow as they stretch their slender arms from stone balustrades to brush the bald heads of crumbling boulders. Sleepy wet moss snuggles into the creases of soaring stone walls. _It's so beautiful, _she thinks, letting her eyes trace soaring arches crowned with sculpture, muscular pillars engraved with the gross theatrics of war and…and - _Ug,_ her eyes recoil – a squat, burnt rat-looking thing that Vaan is skewering with his hunting knife.

_Ew._ _Forgot about that._

Tifa crinkles her nose, eyes the carcass like it might re-sprout its legs and run away. "And what on the Planet is _that?_"

Flipping his knife over in his hand, Vaan winks. "Dinner, my lady. Want some?"

Tifa feels the crinkle in her nose blossom into a face she guesses looks a little bit like a baby being spoon-fed garbage. She can think of about a _million_ things she'd rather eat than that. Her own arm included. "Um. No thanks, for now Vaan."

"I'm telling you," Vaan hacks an irregular chunk of meat from his prey. "It's good. Well, good enough."

Tifa swallows down her nausea. Her head is spinning – a child's top that careens in a plastic tray, bumping into _Cloud_, _mankins, Midgar, Cosmos, __**Aeris, **__shit– _but she forces herself to focus. _ Vaan's face,_ she commands. _Look at Vaan's face._ "How'd you find me?"

"I came to a few miles over there, I think," Vaan gestures behind him with the meat-topped blade. "I stumbled on these torches and figured I'd just pick a direction and keep on walking. And then there you were… You fall or something?"

Brushing the grit from her skirt, Tifa stands. _Yeah,_ she wants to say. _I sure did._ Looking up, she turns in a slow circle and tries to figure out exactly how far she's fallen. _There must be a ledge or something…_Amongst the blown-out structures she waits to see some kind of balcony she could have toppled from, or if not, maybe the decayed first floor of a building. She squints. However far the drop was, it couldn't have been more than twelve feet, something painful and survivable that would make the fact that she's not injured at all make sense. But that's not what she sees. What she sees – the only place she possibly could have fallen from in order to land _here_ – is so high up the light barely reaches it.

It's a cliff. And it falls off into a straight, impossible vertical that tests the limits of her vision.

_What? _

_That…can't be right. _

Grabbing her upper arms, Tifa suddenly feels dizzy, as if she's staring down the grey face of Mt. Nibel, the way Cloud always dared her when they were kids. _Betcha can't hold __**on **__Tifa…_ Except then it was fun holding herself back with just the tips of her fingers…pushing her body out over the risk of an endless fall…and it was _right_, too because she was dizzy-looking-down, not dizzy-looking-_up…_

"Hey Tiiifffaa," Vaan's voice again, and it's good and solid and stops her from falling."You in there? What's the matter? I asked you something."

Tifa shakes her head sharply, brings herself back to now.

"Yeah, I guess I _must_ have," she answers after a while, although she doesn't quite believe it anymore. It doesn't _fit."_Any sign of the others?"

Popping the meat into his mouth, Vaan answers between chews. "Nope. Just you. I figure once you rest up, we should probably go looking for them."

"Right," Tifa relaxes her grip on her upper arms. "I won't need that much longer." Leaving Vaan on the floor behind here, she walks towards a moss-garlanded wall, runs the fingers of her right hand over the vegetation and inhales. _It's okay,_ she tells herself, hiding for a moment in the Nibelheim-that-was smell of greenery and stone. _It's fine. Doesn't matter if the whole thing was real or not. At least you have the memories back. They make you stronger. And Cloud'll make it through. He always does. _

_And you have to be there for him, when he comes home. _

For some reason, the thought makes her smile.

"Hey Tifa," Vaan asks after a while. "Where do you think we are? I mean, really?"

"I don't know," she exhales, her fingers still indenting the quilt of moss on the wall. She wonders why it feels so warm, so comforting to the touch. She brushes it, focuses on the way the clumps pull and resist the weight of her fingers. "The last thing I remember was seeing that _light_. I'm not sure I was really conscious, but I think it was shaped like some kind of dragon."

"Yeah, me too" Vaan agrees, and she hears the clatter as he drops his hunting knife to the stone floor. "But I don't remember how I got here. Or how I got healed up…"

"I know," she replies, looking back over her shoulder. "It doesn't make any sense." Her fingers are very warm now, and the comforting feeling has changed a bit. It's more like the moss is liquid now, and for some reason, she can hear it _sing…_ It's a beautiful song, a threnody of elegant regret the plucks the strings of Tifa's heartbreak with soft, thoughtful fingers…

"_Her Providence…She sought nothing…._ "

"Uh, Tifa" Vaan's voice lilts upward in concern, and Tifa can't quite tell why until she swings her head back towards the wall and notices her fingers glowing. "_She but looked on", _the siren voices trill, "_silent in her sorrow…_"

Tifa doesn't know if she's crying, but there's wetness on her face, and the air that she's breathing is a thin trickle through a tightened throat.

"_She pitied mortals, destined as they were to die…"_

In the far corners of her gathering sorrow, Tifa notices Vaan swipe his hunting knife from the floor and bolt towards her, but everything's moving slowly. Like she's watching him underwater. _It's fine,_ she wants to say. _I'm just listening. _ But Vaan doesn't hear her silent assurance. Wrapping his hand in a decrepit cloth, he grabs her upper arm and tears her fingers from the moss.

It's a wrenching sense of loss she feels as the voices trail off – "_oh but then She deigned to intervene" – _and Tifa's alone in her mind again. She's not sure if she likes that. The song was so _pretty…_

"What the hell," Tifa says, shaking off the disgusting thought and cradling her right hand in her left. She thinks she can still see the edges of glow incubate in her skin. "Vaan, what was that?"

"No clue," Vaan eyes the offending patch of green through slitted eyes. "But I wonder…" he raises his knife before Tifa can stop him.

"Vaan, what are you doing," she tries to catch Vaan's hand but he's already cut a neat incision in the moss, and it separates like spongy folds of greeny-brown flesh beneath his blade.

"But all gods are not alike," he reads. " 'Lindzei is cunning and false, sovereign to snakes and fiends; an anathema to be abhorred.._.' _What the? Teef - what's an anathema?""

"Something cursed…." Tifa answers, her voice steady and quiet. "But not like a _zombie_ curse, or anything. More like a curse from being _cast out,_ being exiled."

Vaan smirks, and the eyes in his ashen face gleam a little. "Well, I like that it means there's no zombies."

"Well," Tifa's pretty sure that Vaan's logic is off. "I mean, there _could _be zombies. I'm just talking about what the word means…"

The bright look on Vaan's face flickers and tightens. "I'm gonna vote we just go with 'no zombies' for now, kay? Hey, take a look at that…"

Tifa squints at the wall and sees what Vaan is looking at. Peeking out from behind the torn patch of moss is a stone circle containing another stone circle. It's saturated with the slime of rotted vegetation, but there's no mistaking that there's some kind of gear underneath it. It's a lever, or a handle. _Or a doorknob…_

This time it's Tifa who acts without thinking. Angling her hand so she doesn't touch the engraved words on the wall, she reaches out and turns. The mucosal sludge beneath her fingers makes getting any traction on the stone a slippery mess, but she strains against the mechanism until she hears the unmistakable click of one gear sliding into another.

"Uhhh, Tifa…."

"What Vaan?" she asks, turning towards him.

"Look."

The sound of stone grating on stone grinds in Tifa's ear as the wall itself yawns open. Surly vines and clumps of fermented moss stretch, thin out, snap, fall away; and stones that have fossilized in the hinges of the massive door crack and crumble like calcium from arthritic joints. The rush of captive atmosphere from the room is cold and gritty, and Tifa can almost _taste_ how long it's been trapped there by the chalk flavor it leaves on her lips as she breathes.

Vaan whistles. Tifa takes a quick step back. They both stare.

"What are we going to do with _this?_" Tifa asks eventually, folding her arms over her chest.

For a moment, Vaan looks like he's thinking over his reply. He sets his hands on the back of his head, closes his eyes, shifts his weight. He fidgets. He waits. But then he jogs a few steps in front of her and shoots a smile over his right shoulder that is crooked and wide and infectious with adventure.

"What else do you do with a door, Teefs?" he responds, reaching back to grab her hand. "_Walk through."_

Despite herself, Tifa smiles back.

* * *

><p>Against her will, Lightning Farron shivers. The night's old now, and it's freezing, and she can't bundle up because she's had to rip her overcoat to shreds to bind Laguna's freshly broken left arm. She and Yuna managed to heal the naked laceration where bone bit through skin, but then the magic just gave out under their fingers. Like everything else about them, exhausted and aimless. Weak.<p>

Yuna and Kain had to reset the fracture manually after that. Him pulling against the muscle tension, her pushing until the two halves of his humerus ground back into place. Lightning grits her teeth. Echoes of his screaming still resonate in her ears. She doesn't know why - of all the sick-making things she's seen or heard today – it's Laguna crying out in pain that disturbs her the most. Of all of them, Laguna's not the one whose supposed to be screaming.

"_No problem,"_ he'd said afterwards.

_Yeah, right. For you, maybe. _

Lightning shifts on her sits bones, wipes the sand from where it's nested in her philtrium and the carbon kissed curve of her upper lip. She's tied her holster to her back so she can keep the sharpened edges of her Enkindler from corroding grit, but she doesn't know how much good it does. There's no escaping the scour of the desert. It insinuates itself everywhere, hair, mouth, eyes, ears, any irregular indentation of cloth or body. She feels like she's made of the stuff. And so, as of right now, the weight of her weapon in an unfamiliar place just feels uncomfortable, pushing her bruised scapula just a half inch beyond what's normal.

Brushing herself off, she stands, surveys the tiny, rebuilt camp. The heavy canvas of the tent flaps in erratic time with a delusory wind, and ribbons of sand lash and curl around her boots. There's no cover of any kind here. No cliffs, no structures, nothing. They're _completely_ exposed. Before healing Laguna's arm, Yuna tried to set up a WayFarer's circle, but Lightning knows it's barely holding. She's not that great at synergistic magic but through the singing, scratchy nerves of the bleached brand on her left breast, she can _feel _the holes in the Protection, the fragility of the Shell. Any half-competent mage could tear this down without a conscious thought. And it she thinks it's a pretty safe bet that whatever took out Bahamut is in a different league than 'competent mage'.

_Maybe,_ she thinks. _I could try…_

Lightning walks a few steps out beyond the camp-fire, until her shadow bleeds into the dark. Relaxing her body into casting form, she feels the sand shift beneath her feet as she changes the weight distribution over her legs. Her brand burns, but then it always burns when she casts. It's parasitic, that brand. It eats her, a little, with every spell. Sucking the electricity from her central nervous system and spitting it out in the shapes that her mind imagines for it. But then it heals her, too, when it knows she's weak. Compelling and pushing and screaming at her to do as she's told. _Faust's bargain. Power for control. _Ordinarily, she hates it with every molecule in her being, but for now, she has to admit, it has its uses.

Focus. Ignore the pain. Pull the magic from your spine. Find the shape.

_No Light,_ she hears the wheedling tone of a teenage boy whose name she's forgotten tickle her mind. _You've got it __**backwards.**__ Shell is like spreading the magic out, like a…well…lightning rod. Protect is like taking the magic inside the person and turning it __**into **__a shell._

_Shut up kid,_ she snaps at whoever is nagging her. _This is confusing enough already._

Inhaling, she feels the magic spin and twist inside her, ready for release. If she can just stay focused, she can layer it into Yuna's stronger spells, give the circle a little much needed support. And for a second, she's successful; the cool, green light leaves the palm of her hand and slides into the threadbare Protection. But then as she tries to level up the intensity, her skin bubbles and pops as second degree burns blossom on the surface of her brand. _Not __**this**_**, **it seems to whisper to her. _We don't want __**this.**_ And before she knows it she's on her knees, her left breast a searing mess of pain, her ribs a sorry cage for her racing heartbeat.

"Ha," she derides herself. _No dice._

Sand teases her with its mocking, grating fingers. It pulls her hair, laughs at her. Beneath her knees, she feels it embed itself into her abrasions, rub thin skin raw.

Lightning knows she should probably get up right away, but she doesn't. Instead she just kneels there, accepts whatever beating the desert wants to dish out. _I can take it,_ she thinks. _Do your worst. I'm not dying here. None of us are._

She breathes through gritted teeth, dares the sand, the night to defeat her. She doesn't even turn her face when she feels the warmth of a second body settle to his knees at her side.

"What is it Kain?" she asks. "You shouldn't be out here."

"Likely," Kain shrugs in reply. "I couldn't sleep. And the desert is peaceful. It lacks Laguna's snoring, at least."

Incongruously, Lightning smirks. In light of their circumstances the quip seems so _normal_ it collapses in on itself, becomes bizarre. But the smile melts from her face when she turns to face him, sees how the bloody sutures strain and wink in the crease of his half open doublet. The force of Bahamut's fall tore some of the stitching, and his torso is a poetic wreck of scabs and broken square knots and split mattress sutures.

Lightning's hands grab futile fistfuls of sand. _He shouldn't be alive._ But then again, none of them should be.

"Still, Highwind," she looks away, throws the sand into the dark and watches as it disappears into the desert, atoms in the universe. "You look like _shit_. You need rest."

Kain offers her a thin smile and inclines his head in concession. "You've been more attractive yourself. And you oughtn've attempted to reinforce the Circle."

"Tch," she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. _Figures he'd be there. _"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," he replies, pushing wayward strands of blood-stiffened hair from his face. "I've been meaning to say something to you."

Lightning picks up another fist of sand and then opens her hand to feel it race over the webbing of her fingers. "What?"

"I wanted to thank you," he says, and his voice is formal. "For saving my life."

Of all the random, boneheaded things she'd expected Kain to say to her, this was probably the last. Lightning can feel her expression twist in exasperation. Did he really think they were just going to leave him there? Let him _die?_ _What is he talking about?_ "What are you talking about?"

"I used simple words, Lightning" he responds. "You saved my life. I owe you my thanks."

"That bleeding affect your _brain? _We weren't going to just going to let you die," her eyes are an indictment, but he's not paying attention to that. His gaze is on something else, and for some reason Lightning gets the feeling he's not really talking to _her_, at all.

"I'm aware you wouldn't," he says when he speaks again. "But in a way, my actions brought us here. I 'brought others down with me', as you say. You'd be within your right –"

"I can't believe you, Kain," she blurts out before she can stop herself. Shaking her head, she wonders how it's possible for one man to be so stupid, all by himself. _Who __**thinks**__ like that? _"You made your choice. I made mine. And we _both _made mistakes." She pauses, closes her eyes, softens her voice. "Besides, I'm pretty sure you saw what I saw. That light. Everyone else going back. You were _right."_

For a moment, Kain is silent. After a while though, his distant gaze retreats and converses with hers. Perhaps for the first time, they look at one another. And Lightning is surprised by how much she can see.

_So do you forgive me? _ No.  
><em>Do you trust me? <em>Not quite. Not yet.  
><em>Do you want me here?<em> Of _**course**_.  
><em>But why?<em> You came back. You're my ally. You're my friend.

They stare at one another for a long time. But the moment that stretches between them isn't heavy, and it has the tang of clean desert air.

It dawns on Lightning that Kain wears that helm all the time so that people won't see how expressive his face is. _If people saw_, she thinks, _he'd never be able to get away with anything._

"You lead us to the Rift, sealed those abominations inside," Kain's words when he finally speaks are pin-pricks in the fabric of a night where too much has already happened, too much has already been said. "If I accomplished anything, it was half your doing. You've my thanks for that, as well."

_We did it together_, _actually, _she thinks for the first time. And she's strangely at peace at with how it doesn't make her angry, how the wrongness of it seems almost just.

_Almost. Not quite. _

Eventually, Lightning stands, beats the sand from her knees. _Face forward,_ he'd said to her once. Fine. She can do that. _They_ can do that. She holds out her hand to help him to his feet. "You coming, Highwind?"

He arches a brow at her, then smiles a slow, quiet smile and takes the hand stretched out in front of him. Leveraging the strength in his thighs against the support of her arm, he rises, and while he withdraws his grip quickly, his eyes linger, amused.

"Why Lightning," he smirks. "Where else would I go?"

* * *

><p><strong>BONUS!NEXT CHAPTER TEASER:<strong> Laguna's having dreams that he can't seem to place, and a trek through the desert raises more questions than it answers. Also, Tifa and Vaan have walked through an open door. But are they prepared to be uninvited guests?


	3. CII: The Ghosts that We have Loved

Chapter II: The Ghosts That We Have Loved 

**Warning: **#$jkd!$ Did I say I was done with exposition? I'm not. So length, erp. Also, explicit descriptions of scary things.  
><strong>Apology:<strong> Yes, repost. Distant convinced me to go a different direction on the first section. Glad she did.  
><strong>Legal:<strong> You heard me the last time.  
><strong>Solicitation:<strong> If something drags please _tell _me. The best stories we tell together.

* * *

><p>"Do I do as false prophets do and puff air into simulacra? Am I a Sorcerer-like Macbeth's witches-mixing truth and lies in incandescent shapes? Or am I a kind of very minor scribe of a prophetic Book-telling such truth as in me lies, with aid of such fiction as I acknowledge mine, as Prospero acknowledged Caliban."<p>

–A.S. Byatt, _Possession_

* * *

><p>In Laguna's dream, his arm isn't broken, and he's not hungry, or tired or anything. In Laguna's dream he smells ocean and trees and clean wet stone. He feels sunlight pour down on him like honey, and he's warm and golden and content. He hears laughter, he thinks. <em>Of children?<em> _Maybe. Probably_.

Not many other sounds are that sweet. He smiles, closes his eyes, lets it wash over him like soft April rain.

"_You're __**it**__."  
><em>"_I'm __**not**__."_

Laguna doesn't really want to know where he is. Wherever it is, it's preposterously, _stupidly_, pretty. Green grass like green crayon, a great grey house that stands guard against a bright blue sky and a steep white cliff. But for some reason it almost makes him sad. Like it's haunted by the ghost of someone he once loved – _still loves? Maybe?_

Behind his eyelids he sees the glint of a bright gold band under a moon-soaked sky, in a life he's forgotten, but not all the way. Her face. It looks a little like _Yuna's_, her face.

"_So what do you say, darlin'? Make this official?"  
><em>"_Me, the monster hunter's wife?"  
><em>"_Hey, now. Don't make it sound so __**bad.**__"_

He didn't live here with her. But he thinks she'd have liked it.

Who _is_ she? Laguna can't find her in the holes in his mind. _A woman-shaped secret._ She won't tell him her name.

_Quit asking questions, Loire._ He stops himself from cross-examining her. It's not healthy for him to ask to many questions. If he does, he might remember. And if he remembers, well, a part of him knows this won't be a very good dream, anymore. And Laguna likes nice dreams. It's been a while since he's had one.

Laguna opens his eyes and continues to walk a little ways. He ambles through rows of high, white pillars to the door of the stately house. Beneath his feet, the earth is yielding and fertile and filled with things that grow. He's following the laughter, but he's in no rush to get there. For now, he just wants to enjoy the distant sound of the waves, the otherness of where he is, compared to where he just was.

_Fuck broken worlds, seriously. _

Vaguely, Laguna wonders how he knows this is a dream. But _hey_, stranger things happen to him, well, _daily_ here_, _so he takes it for what it is. He just wants to walk. See what all the fun is about. Make this last as long as he can.

By the time he reaches the door, the giggling sounds are borderline intoxicating. They're high pitched and trilling and out-of-breath and punctuated with tripping noises and pushing noises and "_Hey, no fair Sis!". _ Laguna smiles. This must be one big, happy family his dream has conjured up. To have a place like this, on the ocean. And there must be some crazy garden here too, because the smell of flowers is a riot in the air.

"_Sis I said stooooooop…quit throwing all those stupid flowers at me!...I __**mean**__ it. I said__** stop**__." _

"_C'mon, they're just daisies…Betcha can't get me back!"_

"_Only __**girls **__pick flowers!"_

Laguna smiles. Yeah, he thinks he'd like to meet these people. They seem _happy._ Maybe he could dream of them more often. He sprints the few steps through the vestibule, and then quickly through a sun-warmed stone hall that's filled with the scent of baking bread – _damn that smells good – _and into the back yard. _It'll be good to talk to talk about stuff that isn't dying or death. Or blowing shit up. Or getting __**our **__shit blown up…_

But it's strange. Because the faster he runs to the laughter, the softer it seems to get. And the closer he finds himself to the ocean, the less it smells like sea.

Laguna doesn't notice until he's standing alone in the backyard that the stone around him isn't clean anymore. That it's crumbling and broken and is mixed with shell casings and the tiny bones of small birds. The sun is gone too, and it's a browny-grey sky he's standing under. The clouds above are wild and indeterminate, and they ribbon and unribbon in each other, like milk in cold tea.

_Damn it,_ Laguna thinks. _Too good to be true._

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Laguna remembers that when you know it's a dream you can wake yourself up, or control it. Lucid dreaming, he thinks it's called. And all you have to do is just decide that it's different and _voila_. New dream. So Laguna closes his eyes and tries to make another choice. He thinks about the honey sun and the heavy scent of different flowers and that laughter…._that_ _laughter._

_Why did it sound so familiar? _

Laguna opens his eyes and nothing has changed. The place is still cold and dark, and the family he was looking for is nowhere to be found. He doesn't quite understand why he'd wanted to see them so badly, but it doesn't matter now. He smirks. _Figures_. Looks like he was misinformed about this lucid dreaming business.

Reaching up to massage the knot in the back of his neck, Laguna turns around. It doesn't really seem like he's in a _different_ place. It's more like years have passed and wherever he just was has gone to seed. He scans the broken landscape. Nothing seems actively _dangerous_. Just desolate. The tide advances and recedes in regular time, and while there's no sun, the disconcerted clouds overhead carry no hint of storm.

Laguna thinks it's almost romantic, in a sparse, decaying kind of way.

Shifting in his stance, he inhales deeply. So maybe this dream isn't _quite_ filled with sunshine, but this is nice too, he supposes. It's _peaceful_. And empty. Except for the footsteps. _Wait, footsteps? Come __**on. **_

_Please don't be manikins. Just not manikins. _

Pivoting on his boot, Laguna's hand automatically reaches down to his holster for a gun that isn't there. But when he sees who it is walking towards him, fur-collar-in-summertime and all, he relaxes almost immediately. But who's that other person with him…the _girl…?_

There's something about her that Laguna can't place. Her face is beautiful though, and for some reason Laguna knows now that he's seen it, he won't ever be able to forget. It fills an empty space in him, a place he didn't know was so hollow, until now.

"Hey Squall," Laguna waves as the figures close the distance between them. "Welcome to my dream! Who's your friend?"

Squall doesn't answer. Instead he turns to his companion. "Told you."

"It's Uncle Laguna's way, Squall," the girl fidgets, and the way her eyes search the scrubby landscape, Laguna can tell she doesn't know where to put them. "You know that."

"He's not _my_ Uncle."

"No," the girl says, finally resting her gaze on delicate hands that she's tied in every type of knot. "He's not."

Laguna's confused. He really wants to get out of this dream now. "Uh, did I miss something?"

"Yeah," Squall cuts him off. "I'd say you did."

"You don't remember us," the girl says, and for some reason the sound of her voice is breaking his heart. _Where have I __**heard **__this before…and why…_ "You _never _remember us."

The thing that Laguna absolutely did not want to remember is bubbling in his mind. "I don't get it. Squall, what's going on?"

Squall doesn't answer him, just pins the girl with leaden eyes. "This was your idea, Sis. Ask him. Or tell him. Or whatever."

Looking up, the girl's eyes reflect the churning greys of the agitated sky. "Why are you always forgetting us Uncle…? You've forgotten us again, I think."

Laguna sputters. He doesn't know what to say. Obviously, he _has_ forgotten her, but what does that have to do with _Squall?_

"You left him behind. Why did you do that…I _thought_…I thought if you had the chance, you wouldn't _do _that anymore."

"I'm sorry, young lady," Laguna musters, but his throat is dry and scratched when he speaks. He's nervous. He doesn't know why. _One nice dream. All I wanted was __**one **__nice dream. _"I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"I can't change the past," the girl is relentless. "But _you _can change the future. Uncle, please. I don't have much time. But just…_don't leave_…He's counting on you. He doesn't know it yet…but he is…."

"Kids, I _really_ don't get it."

"Afraid you never did." It's Squall who answers this time, and for some strange reason Laguna wishes his voice sounded more angry and less…disappointed. "You always were a moron_._"

The girl speaks again and her warm eyes are cold; her soft tone is stiff with an eerie kind of steel. "I can't let you forget us this time. I _**can't**_."

There's no reason Laguna should feel like he's choking. But he does. The air is suddenly hot and clogged with ash and slag and it's burning his throat. And yet Squall is just standing there, looking down at him with measured indifference. Sudden, oppressive heat is driving him to his knees, and when Laguna blinks and looks up, the person he sees isn't Squall at all but something different, something not human – _or __**once **__human__** – **__or maybe it was never human, really, at all…_

_Hyne. What __**is**__ that thing?_ But if the girl in this dream is someone he doesn't want to remember, this is something he doesn't want to _know_. It doesn't matter though. He's being forced to look anyway.

It's a face – of some kind – and it's molded out of tar and blood and the bone-white enamel of razored teeth_. _Its head is a crown of horns. It _snorts._ It _laughs_. It's completely fucking insane. And Laguna knows without a doubt, that somehow, some way, it's going to come for him. And everything he cares about.

_No. __**No.**_

_Just one nice thing. It's __**all**__ I wanted._

"He was an abandoned son, too," Laguna can hear the girl accuse him, her voice strong and strident even though her slender figure is a ghost in his eyes. "He was left behind too_._"

Laguna tries to scream, but his vocal chords seem are crushed. And no, he still can't remember, anything.

"_Why are you always leaving?"_ The girl's body is completely gone now, and her voice is finally fading too. "_You have to stop this, this time. This time you have to go __**back.**__"_

_I don't understand. I'm sorry. I just don't know. _Laguna can feel himself start to wake as bits of too-yellow desert light pierce the horrifying image in his mind.

_I only wanted to __**help.**_

"_Help __**us. **__If you leave him behind this time, I'll never forgive you." _

_I'll never be able to forgive myself…_

"_But you __**did.**__ Don't do it again, Uncle. Now __**wake up.**__"_

_Okay. Okay. Anything for you. El – _

"-lone. Holy -," Laguna bolts upright from the floor of the tent. Pulling his knees up, he lays his sweat-drenched forehead on them and tries to breathe. _What was that?_ _There was a name…_He tries to focus, to remember, but all his senses bleed together in an incoherent swirl. The shock of the dream, the sleep stained shapes of morning, the sudden return of the nerve-twitchingly painful swelling in his left arm, it's all a mess in his head right now. A pulpy nothing that makes him feel disgusting and crazy.

_Shit, shit, __**shit. **__What the fuck, Squall. _

Without looking up, Laguna palms the gritty floor of the tent with his good hand, seeking his revolver. He wants to touch something that's real. When he finds it, he brings the grip to his temple and holds it there, a sentry against the shattered things that drift through his mind.

_What was that? Who was that girl.._

The sun soaks through the thin canvas of the tent, bakes the sweat on the back of his neck into salt flats and Laguna doesn't know if he's hot or cold. Terrified or relieved. Probably neither. _Or both._

His arm hurts like hell. It's the only thing he can feel. Tears leak from his eyes and rest thoughtfully in the crags of his grease and blood-splattered face. He tries to pretend he's not shaking.

"Sir Laguna?" It's Yuna's soft voice that interrupts Laguna's spiraling thoughts; Yuna's soft hands rubbing circles in the sweaty, sand-sticky small of his back that returns order to the universe. "Sir Laguna, is something the matter? Did you have a nightmare?"

Laguna lifts his face from his knees and offers her a crooked smile. He's embarrassed at the wetness in his eyes, but figures he can pass it off for the pain in his arm, if he has to. "I dreamt I...forgot something." _Get a __**grip**__ Loire._ _It was just a stupid __**dream**__. "_No biggie."

Concern softens Yuna's dirty, serious features. "What did you forget?"

"Nothing important," Laguna shrugs, uses the battered leather glove of his good hand to wipe the moisture from his eyes. He grazes his forehead with the butt of his revolver and smells the comforting smell of gunpowder. "You know, just my life," he grins. "Like everybody else here."

A hummingbird delicate smile lights on Yuna's dehydrated lips before flitting away. "If it's your _arm_, Sir Laguna, I could try – "

Smiling wider, Laguna winks at her and lies. "No use wasting a good Cura on me now. I barely used that arm anyway."

Yuna doesn't say anything, she just continues to rub his back. It's nice – _it's one nice thing – _the warm silence, the feeling of her hands on the tense muscles of his spine. Part of him wonders how she can just sit here, comforting him and his broken arm and his _bad dream_ when she's lost the love of her young life, the awesome presence of that monster GF of hers,and _hell_ just about everything else too.

"Hey Yuna," Laguna asks after a while. "Are _you_ okay_? _That was pretty awful, what happened there last night."

After a few quiet beats, Yuna responds, but her answer doesn't interrupt the soft rubbing at his back. It continues, rhythmic and healing and kind. "Thank you, Sir Laguna, for asking. I'll miss Bahamut – very much –but he'd want me to save my tears for a better time_._ So I will. In honor of him, I will."

"It's okay, you know," he replies, capturing her eyes. "I mean, you don't have deal with it all by yourself."

Yuna continues to work the anxiety from his back. "But I'm not," she responds, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

_Maybe it is_, he smiles. _Maybe it is_.

Yuna's got narrow shoulders, for such heavy shit. _Just like…just like…._

Laguna releases a long breath in a steady exhalation, shakes off both what he can't remember and what he thinks he saw. If this scrap of a girl can deal with loss that would bring a grown man to his knees, he can stop fixating on a pain-induced night terror like a green recruit. He's got people to help in the here and now. Besides, he figures, if what he saw in that dream is _really_ trying to find him, it will soon enough.

When Yuna finally retracts her hand from his lower back, Laguna realizes he's still holding his revolver. And as he turns all the way around to face her, he acts automatically.

_She's such a good kid. And if her GFs are bait for whatever's boss here, she'll need more than that stick..._

"You should keep this," he says, flipping the weapon so he's holding it by the barrel and offering Yuna the grip. "May come in handy while your dragon's in the shop."

"Oh no, Sir Laguna." Yuna's eyebrows crease, and she shakes her head. "I couldn't."

"Sure you can," he smiles, flicks the safety and drops the gun in her lap. "There. It's all yours. All _you_ have to do is keep it."

"But I…" Yuna picks up the weapon and tests the weight of it in her hand. " I don't know how to _use it_."

Smirking, Laguna fidgets with the splint on his left arm. "Don't worry about it. I'll teach you. Give us something to do, you know, when we're not hiking through sand dunes or starving to death or fun stuff like that."

Giggling softly, Yuna brings the revolver sight to her right eye and curls a small, mocking finger around the trigger. "Like _this_ then?"

Laguna starts. Her thumb is a bit _too_ close to the safety for his liking, but he smiles as he pushes the barrel down. "Hey, hey," he laughs. "Careful with that. Usually takes a woman a little longer than this to want to shoot me. But yeah, that's a good start."

Yuna puts the weapon up to her mouth and hides the grin that's settled there. "Thank you."

Letting Yuna's smile stuff the last shadows of the demon's face safely back into the back of his mind, Laguna winks and chucks her gently on the chin. _She's got a great smile._

"Any time," he says.

Outside, dawn dissolves the sky into a bright, dreamless morning.

* * *

><p>Tifa Lockheart doesn't usually mind being wrong. It happens to everyone and she's no exception. There are only a couple of times when it really bothers her. The first is when it results in her getting shot at. Which, Tifa admits, has happened to her…quite a bit. Not <em>that<em> much – _shut up Barrett_ – but probably more than necessary. The second is, well, when it embarrasses her. Like when she slips on something, for example. Or when she mistakes Cloud – _or Cecil, or that Kuja-person, or…a lot of those guys, really – _for a girl. And, _and_ when her stomach growls. Loudly. In a giant cavern where the ceilings are high enough for it to echo and reverberate…

"Told you to have some," Vaan gloats. He's seated beside her on the foot of a comically huge lion-warrior-statue-thing, his knees bent to his chest and his arms folded lazily behind his head. In the sooty orange flicker of the torchlight, the dirt on his face is just another kind of a shadow.

"Okay, okay," Tifa answers, nudging him with a bruised shoulder. "You win. But come _on_. It _was _gross looking."

Vaan pulls his arms from behind his head and hugs his knees. "You don't see it after you've eaten it, Teefs," he replies. Sighing, he looks out over his soot-blackened hands to the cavern in front of them. "Guess this place was a bust."

Tifa grips her thighs, doesn't answer right away. _It's not that it was a __**bust**__..._but Vaan has a point. Alien poetry and singing walls and a secret door really ought to lead someplace spectacular. And this place…well...it's not exactly _spectacular… _"It looks a bit like…a collection."

Vaan lifts his head, turns up the side of his mouth in a grim smirk. "Of garbage?"

"Vaan - "

"Well, what would _you _call it then?" Vaan uncoils himself and hops off the toe. "'Cause to me, it looks an awful lot like garbage."

"More like antiques, maybe?" Tifa offers an alternative, even though a part of her – _a pretty big part, actually_ – can't help but agree. It took them hours to get here, walking through airless corridors that bent and twisted in on themselves like a kind of demented argument. Some of them were so narrow and decayed that they half collapsed the second she and Vaan had ducked through. And when the path finally, mercifully, widened, they found themselves _here._

A colossal, vaulted-ceiling cavern.

A colossal, vaulted-ceiling _dead fucking end_.

_Awesome._

"Hmpf," Vaan mumbles, pivoting in a slow circle and surveying the cave. "May as well have a look around, anyway."

Tifa yawns and puts a split-knuckled hand to her lips. "Go ahead Vaan, but don't _touch_ anything."

Jogging off to a far corner of the cave, Vaan raises a jaunty right hand but doesn't turn around when he answers. "_You _touched stuff."

"That was different – "

"Fair's fair Teefs," Vaan's voice is a distorted echo in the vast, still air. "Try and relax. I _am_ a grown-up, remember."

The edges of a worried reply shape Tifa's lips, but Vaan's scampered off before she can set it free. _How does he still have so much energy?_ She shakes her head and then rests it back against the statue's leg. It's softer than she expects, the stone. Like it's not all-the-way solid. Through the soft curls of her exhaustion, she could almost convince herself it was alive…

Sleepy tears quiver between Tifa's half shut lids, and it's a lazy gaze she rests on Vaan as he buzzes through the cavern, stopping at arbitrary heaps of rust and time-scarred artifacts. _It really isn't garbage…_If it weren't for her disappointment, she'd probably be amazed. _I mean, there __**is**__ the sixty-foot statute, after all_. But even beyond that, the place is a raven's nest of glittering debris. Moldering parchment is everywhere, and crowded with words that Tifa can't read. Strange, clockwork-looking soldiers stand rusted at attention under fossilized ages of dust. And then there's the _art_. Ancient ink is faded to a senile memory of color, but the images are clear, nonetheless. And it's always the same, over and over again.

A schizophrenic crystal pillar crowned with a shattered crystal sphere. _One planet that wears a pendant of another. _ It's not beautiful. It'smore important than beautiful.

_Sacred, _she knows, suddenly. _Aerith would call it sacred. _

_This is a shrine._

The insight is a needle through her exhaustion, but it makes Tifa shudder, all the same. She thinks she's had enough of gods, actually, for now. And whatever's out there that worships a hunk of dead crystal is nothing she wants to get to know.

_Oh Aerith. _Tifa wishes more than anything that she could just _talk _to her. About all this. About everything. She was always good at the Lifestream. At gods and monsters and the difference between. _I'm so sorry I forgot Aerith._ _I didn't __**know**__, I…_Tifa closes her eyes, and even though she knows it's not there she lets her hand search her upper arm for the small pink ribbon she knows she should be wearing. Along with Kain and Lightning and Laguna and Yuna and Cloud and Yuffie and Vincent…it's lost.

_It's lost too._

Tifa stretches and then curls her legs up to her chest. She's exhausted. All she wants to do is sleep. She's been on her feet since she woke up from that _not-quite-fall-whatever-it-was,_ and despite the fact she's not injured, weariness metastasizes through her. The final stage of a disease that will liquefy every cell in her body soon enough. They need to set up camp somewhere – _here seems okay–_ maybe establish a watch – _oh it's fine, Vaan'll stay up for a while_ – find a tent or something – _tent, schment…_

_I just need a little nap._ She shifts, snuggles her face against a curve in in the stone._ Fifteen minutes at the most._ Gravity pulls her eyelids the rest of the way closed, and kind, obfuscating black closes over the broken world.

_Marlene…Cloud… Maybe I'll get to dream of home...I'd like that…_

"Uh, Tifa…." Vaan calls, snatching Tifa's consciousness back from sleep. "You gotta come over here and see this."

_Vaaaann…_Tifa's eyes flash open. "What is it Vaan?"

"I'm telling you," a Vaan-sounding, echo-distorted voice bounces around in the cavern. "I can't explain. Just come over here."

Tifa swivels her head left and right, but can't find the lithe, filthy body the voice belongs to. _Where…_"Where…Where you Vaan?"

"Behind the rusted soldiers. And, uh, you should probably _hurry…._"

Jumping down off the statue's foot, Tifa sprints the short distance across the cavern towards the regiment of ancient machines. Metal that's rusted into brittle wafers breaks to orange dust beneath her boots, and as she weaves between the corrosion-petrified tin-men, she averts her eyes from their faces. They're not human, but they're close enough. And Tifa is a little scared that simulated eyes will see right through her.

The scent of iron oxide assaults her, leaves a sharp, ugly taste in her mouth

"Vaan," Tifa calls out, pushing her way past the last line in the iron brigade. "_What_ are you doing back here? I don't see – "

Vaan doesn't have to interrupt her. Of their own volition, her words die on her lips.

She was wrong. _This isn't a shrine._ It's a graveyard.

Behind the twisted robot sentries is a garden of crystal people, frozen in various stages of horrifying metamorphosis. Hands are splayed out in front of faces wrecked with terror. Limbs are distended and wrong, half or more than half evolved into claws or wings or paws or some other inhuman shape. Some of them are women. Some of them are children. And, buried deep beneath the mercilessly beautiful chains of crystal that bind them, all of their eyes still burn with life.

They've been buried alive.

Vaan's quivering voice breaks the silence. "If you touch them, you can hear them _talk._ They say…they say they're Sanctum…Sanctum Le-something…Do you know what that is?"

Shivering, Tifa shakes her head. "I have no idea."

More crystal. Why does everything always come back to crystal? Empty crystal warriors with souls of pointless violence. Hollow crystal husks they're still carrying around from the goddess who abandoned them. And now this, _this? _

It's not in Tifa's nature to be melodramatic or angry. She doesn't like to use words like 'abomination' or 'horror', and it's not her style to swear revenge. But looking into the pleading eyes of the little crystal children, she clenches her fists until the scabs on her knuckles break. If she ever finds who – _or what _– did this to these people, she will take it down with her bare hands.

It's with a wary, hunted gait that Tifa navigates the crystal necropolis. She's afraid that if she doesn't step lightly, they'll shatter. She can hear Vaan follow behind her with the tentative steps of a creature about to bolt. Not that she can blame him. These aren't rested souls. And though Tifa never could bring herself to ask too many questions about the things that Shinra did in the dark, she knows that they would _love_ this, that at some level, whatever is capable of doing this shares the poisonous root of the thing she's spent her entire life trying to kill.

"Can we leave now Teefs?" Vaan asks finally. "This is freaking me out."

"Soon," Tifa responds quietly before kneeling down in front of a particularly striking figure. This one is different from the others. One of its hands terminates in a claw, yes, but it's turned upward in a gesture of truly human supplication. Wings – or parts of wings – erupt from its back, but they're not spread in in arrogant proclamation. Instead, they lay flat on its back, waiting – the ghostly promise of a flight yet to occur.

It's the face, though that grabs her more than anything. Despite the stunning monstrosity of his body, it has the face of man.

It's a beautiful face. Sad and longing and lost in itself. A little like Vincent. A little like Cloud. But then not like either of them, really, at all. Her fingers tremble, but Tifa reaches out to touch it anyway

"Tifa," Vaan's voice, pitchy with worry. "Don't _touch_ that Tifa."

Tifa doesn't listen, splays her fingers against its cheek.

"It's not an _it, _Vaan," Tifa whispers, and she strokes the elegant angles of chin and jaw in tender conspiracy. The crystal is soft, breathing, _alive._

"Raines," she whispers finally. "He says his name is Cid Raines."

* * *

><p>The magic isn't working. Not just for the WayFarer's Circle. But for everything.<p>

Beneath the heavy wool of her turtleneck, Lightning's whited-out brand burns hysterically. _Watera_, she commands, but the _thing_ doesn't listen. Defiant, it blisters her skin, melts it, cell by exquisitely sensitive cell, into the gaps in the fraying fabric. Blood seals flesh to burnt-out material and it hurts like fucking hell, but Lightning ignores it.

She spits sand out of her mouth, snorts it from her nose, and trembles as the power she's charged in her nerves threatens open revolt.

_**Listen**__ to me_, she insists.

Dehydrated lids crinkle shut over dry eyes. Beads of sweat take their mark on the bridge of her nose and race each other to the desert. She's gathered so much magic in her hands that cracks and fissures form in the landscape of her palms. But when she tries to find the _shape,_ the calming, blue-circle shape of the water they all so desperately need, the evil pattern on her breast won't let her release it.

Like the bastard false god that gave it to her, it has something else in mind.

_**We can't, **_she thinks she hears it hiss in the corridors of her brain._**We won't.**_

_Fuck you_, Lightning grits her teeth and clenches her fists. She has to be able to do _something_ with this power. _Just a few drops…_

Her eyelids sail open, along with her hands. Agitated pupils shrink back into itchy irises as midmorning light scratches her vision. Energy pours from her hands but it's shapeless, formless, directionless, _useless_. More light – _yet more light –_ in a sky that's already scarred with it.

"_Damn it_," she exhales, pivoting out of casting form in a soft puff of impotent sand.

"It's okay, Light." Laguna waves a flask overhead from a point in the distance. He's chased the throbbing ball of spell to see if it eventually acquired an element. "Pretty sure there was _some _kinda water in there that time."

"_Kind of water?_" Beside her, Kain's crossed his arms over the bloodstained broadcloth of his doublet. Flicking chipped paint from his left thumbnail, he studies the cracking horizon, watches as the desert falls off into the void like bits of broken sandcastle into the sea. "There's water or there's none. What, pray, is '_kind of_' water?"

Laguna jogs up beside him, arches a brow and holds out the flask in triumph. "Au contraire, my narrow minded knight," he winks. "Behold, kind-of water."

Snatching the flask, Kain brings it level with his eyes and notes the sand-fattened drops of condensation that have dried at its mouth. He smirks, tosses the bottle back to Laguna with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Touché."

"Now," Laguna grins wickedly, pocketing the bottle. "Seeing as we're not having luck with _spells_, Kain, think you might jump up there and smack us out some rain? You're always talking about _piercing the dark clouds,_ and all that."

Kain stares at Laguna as if he's just spoken to him in Cactaur. "You're delirious."

Laguna winces as he adjusts the splint on his left arm, but the voice he answers with is studiously bright. "Deliriously _charming, _right Light?"

Lightning clenches her jaw against a pointless retort then closes her fist against the sudden desire to smack Laguna upside the head. They've been walking for miles now, dragging exhausted limbs over ankle-deep shifting sand that fights them for every step. If they don't find a way to get water soon…

_No_. She refuses to walk down the path that thought is leading her. But still, she can't cast for _shit_ here, and it doesn't make any sense.

"Whatever Laguna," Lightning mutters, walking a few paces away from both of them. Closing her eyes over the boiling morning, she concentrates_. Why?_ Yuna can't cast because she's got to rely on mana, and she's running on empty. After Bahamut, healing Kain and Laguna and setting up the Wayfarer's circle, the poor thing is a yellowish sack of skin and bones. But L'Cie magic doesn't work that way. It's self-replenishing, unruly, wild. _Like a monster's_, she flinches. But even still, there's no reason it should be working _against_ her like this. Unless…

_Unless what?_ The thought doesn't have a trajectory. It leads only to other arid, answerless questions.

A touch on her shoulder pulls Lightning's attention away from futility and back behind her. Yuna. "Light," she says, the grip of Laguna's revolver sticking incongruously from the tattered yellow fabric of her obi. "Please don't force it. We can last a little longer yet."

Lightning sighs and then cringes as the rising of her chest breaks the newborn scabs on her brand. "Hmpf. Define 'longer.'"

"As long as we have to," Yuna answers and then smiles, a careful, quiet thing. "Besides, I think you're too stubborn to listen to me anyway. You'll probably just keep trying until you get it. I just think you should rest, for now."

"Yeah, maybe," Lightning still can't get over how well Yuna sees through her, sees through them all. _Or maybe we really are that transparent._ She sighs. "But it doesn't make any _sense_ Yuna –"

"I know," Yuna interrupts, absently resting a small hand on the battered grip of the revolver. "This place, I can't explain it. It's…there's something _wrong_ here, Light."

Lightning nods and narrows her eyes before bringing her hand to her mouth to guard it from the gusting sand. Wherever, _whatever _this desert is, it eats logic, picks the meat from living theories and leaves behind only the bleached bones of absurdity. The sky is empty, yet capable of shredding the King of Dragons to a tattered ruin flesh. There's light _everywhere_, pulsing from unmoving clouds, yet their shadows lengthen and shorten predictably, as if there were a sun that marched in orderly procession across the sky.

The only constant is the wasteland. And even that Lightning can't bring herself to trust. She can't shake the feeling that the emptiness is lying to her. As if no matter how naked the landscape may seem on the surface, there are still monsters lurking _right there,_ in all the places she isn't looking.

As if reading her mind, Yuna's eyes find hers, and Lightning can see written in her wan, mana-sickened face the same dread that's gnawing at her senses.

_This is a haunted place._ Lightning shudders. She just wishes she knew the names of its ghosts.

"Whatever killed Bahamut," Yuna eventually continues, looking off into the distance. "This is its lair. But I don't think it's _alone._ There's something _else._ Not the unsent…but close…"

Yuna trails off and closes her eyes, and before Lightning can grasp what's happening she's wrapped both her hands around her staff and is turning to the rhythm of a lonely, silent song. Her hands glow a soft, golden light and Lightning knows Yuna's _reaching _for something, using that sense of hers – whatever it is she uses to touch unrested spirits – to feel out the contours of the things they both know are watching them. Asking themif they're friend or foe or something else. Something in between.

It's funny. Yuna's the farthest thing Lightning has ever known from a black mage, but she dances for the dead. They go where she bids them, they do as she asks, and a Lightning can never decide whether to be awed or scared completely shitless.

_This is power, _she knows, deep down. _ Anything else is just touching the surface. _

The fingers of the wind garland them both with ropes of sand, and for a moment Lightning is transfixed. _What do you see Yuna, when you look at them? What do they say?_ A secret smile spreads its benediction over her lips. If the last thing her parents saw before they died was Yuna, Lightning can live with that. That would be just fine.

It goes on like this for a while, Yuna just swaying and Lightning just watching. But as the filthy tatters of the summoner's kimono bend over knees that look sure to give out, Lightning closes the distance between them in two sharp strides and snatches her staff away from her.

_No way,_ she thinks. _We need you too much for that._

"Okay, that's enough," Lightning snaps. "We've got enough cripples to last us plenty."

"I know," Yuna smiles and straightens. "But I'm a little stubborn too, you know. You aren't the only one, Light."

_Point. _"Well," Lightning smirks. "Maybe I should take _your _advice sometimes."

Yuna laughs a thoughtful laugh and nods. "Maybe. But you won't," she says, prying her staff back out of Lightning's fingers. Her expression darkens before she continues. "I wasn't able to sense much, but this place, it's _filled_ with the dead. I don't think they mean us harm. It's more like they're on a journey somewhere…"

Shuddering, Lightning stops herself from wondering what it must mean for them, being wanderers in a desert for the dead. "Your Farplane maybe?"

Yuna shakes her head. "No…not _quite._ They don't want me to send them there. It's different."

Lightning doesn't want to think about it. It doesn't help to think about it. _Water, shelter, home_. That's what they need to concentrate on. It's why she needs the magic, _now._ "Is _that_ why I can't cast?"

"I don't think so," Yuna's fingers are jumpy, unsettled things against the dull wood of her staff. "All the magic is…damp…here. Like there's some kind of great will, holding it in place…I can't explain. Yours more than mine, though."

Exasperated, Lightning's hand seeks the hilt of Enkindler. Riddles in riddles. Illusions in lies. Nothing makes any fucking sense. She sighs, impatient. "Then how'd we heal Kain?"

"_We _didn't," Yuna says, her voice, for the first time, unsure. "At least not alone."

_What?_ "What?" she asks, even though the second Yuna says it, Lightning knows it's true. Kain was taking death's hand when they'd found him_. 'A quick clean end,' _he'd said once, in a shared moment of solitude. _Unbelievable._ "What do you mean, Yuna?"

Yuna's mouth curves around the start of an answer, but whatever it is she was about to say is lost to the crack of a submachine gun opening fire, to Laguna's voice cutting the heavy quiet of the desert air with a rapid procession of curses. Lightning doesn't hear Kain say anything, but there's a characteristic rushing sound –_ a storm in the trees – _and a swath of sand is torn from the desert floor to clog her nostrils and gum her eyes.

"The _hell,_ Laguna" she calls back, Enkindler already drawn and snapped to sword form. "What…"

The words dry up on Lightning's lips as she pivots and sees what, at first glance, she thinks must be a mirage. A glittering puddle of illusory crystal that spreads against the horizon. But just as she's about to scold Laguna and Kain for chasing their own shadows, she squints her eyes and makes out the horrifying, crystal-perfect angles of the one thing that she'd thought this world – with its ghosts and killing sky and ravenous desert – might have had the grace to spare them. Although the second she thinks it, she wonders how she'd indulged herself with such a childish notion as mercy.

_From what fucking gods? _

Crowding the distance is a small sea of manikins. And them broken and helpless as children. As Yuna draws her silly, defeated revolver, Lightning's lips curl in vicious amusement at the last insult this place is hurling at them.

That hissing sound they're making. It has the clear, musical sound of running water.

* * *

><p>Cid Raines has a nice voice, Tifa decides.<p>

Dimly, she realizes that she's frozen. That she froze the second she said his name. A part of her can detect the muted sounds of Vaan screaming at her to _move, please __**Tifa,**_but although she wishes she could tell him that she's fine, she's not afraid. For right now, she knows that whoever this Cid is, he isn't going to hurt her.

Her living liquid eyes are locked with his not-quite-dead crystal ones, and as far as Tifa can tell, they're just having a conversation. And he really does have such a beautiful voice.

_Hello, _she thinks-says.

"_Hello."_

_I'm Tifa_. _Tifa Lockheart._

"_Your name is irrelevant, I'm afraid."_

_That's an odd thing to say. Look, I don't know how you ended up here, but we'd like to help if we can. How can we get you out of here?_

In the back of her mind, Tifa thinks she hears something that sounds like a laugh. "_It's late, unfortunately, for that."_

_What do you mean?_

"_Once upon a time, there was hope, for me. Once upon a time, I was a man. That time is passed."_

_I'm sorry. I really don't understand. _

"_You've stumbled on a place you shouldn't be Tifa Lockheart."_

_Oh good. You know where we are?_

If Tifa thought she heard a laugh before, she knows she hears it now. But it's a sad laugh, one that's filled with regret so pure Tifa thinks her heart might break with how perfect it is "_Too well."_

_Well, __**tell **__me then_. _Don't keep a girl in the dark._

"_Lindzei's lair. The nest where the viper collects her treasures, waiting for the right moment for her task."_

_Cid, I have no idea what you're talking about. Who's __**Lindzei**__?_

"_A collector of signs, if you will. An abandoner of lesser gods. One who shares this Rift with the dragon and the Will; with her sister, and the sacred debris of other worlds. They keep an uneasy peace. You have disturbed it."_

_Cid, you're not making much sense._

"_Perhaps. It's been some time, since I was a man."_

_Stop __**saying**__ that. You're still human. I mean, a part of you, anyway. I'd be able to tell if you weren't._

"_You are kind, Tifa Lockheart. So please forgive me for what I must do."_

_I don't know what you're talking about. Do __**what**__?_

"_Once I thought myself a pawn of a king. In truth, I was the pawn of a pawn. You have disturbed the collecting of her signs and I must warn her, as I was bid."_

_Wait-wait-WAIT. Warn her? What? Why? You don't have to do __**anything**__ –_

"_You truly know nothing. But it matters not. You should not be here. The Will who sent you knew this when he allowed it. In a way, it was he and his broken bride who damned you, though I must do it again."_

_I don't understand. We want to help you. You __**don't**__ have to do this. _

"_If you did not hold the bride's crystal, perhaps. If you had not touched my face, perhaps. But you have, and I know too my duty as a slave."_

_What do you mean Cid? We were only trying to help. We were only trying to get __**home…**_

"_I mean that you will die. She will destroy you, for breaking their pact, for upsetting the balance, for threatening the sleep of the only one she calls master."_

Terror is rising in Tifa's throat, but she shoves it down. She has to get out of here. She has to get Vaan out of here. _This was a mistake, Lockheart._ She tries to withdraw her fingers but they're fused to the crystal. Cid isn't letting her go.

_Please, _she thinks frantically. _Please._

Cid pauses a moment before responding, and when he does, Tifa can hear the pain in his voice. The resignation. _"For your kindness Tifa, for the freedom you have that I once loved so dearly, I will wait as long as I can before I call her. But you must fly."_

Whatever force is holding her to Cid dissipates slightly, and Tifa can move her fingers – _just a little_ – again. But for some strange reason, she finds that she doesn't want to let go. Tears bloom in her eyes. Whoever this person had been, whatever horrible things he'd done, he was right. He'd been a man once. And a part of Tifa knows, he'd been a good one.

_I'm sorry we couldn't help you._

"_I'm sorry for that as well. Now fly."_

_Cid…_

"_**Fly**__."_

Electricity sparks through Cid Raines' crystal face and knocks her back into the crumbling floor of the cavern. As she tries to relocate hands and feet beneath her, she hears the sound of footsteps careening towards her over loose stones and brittle scraps of metal.

"Teefs! _Tifa!_ " Vaan's voice is strained and broken. Tifa winces as she watches rusted nails shred his knees when he skids to the ground and throws his arms around her. "Are you okay? Say something, _please!_"

As Tifa's vision clears, she sees Vaan's ash-blackened face is smudged with hazy tracks of tan. _Had he been crying? No, not crying, but close…_ She shakes the last tendrils of disorientation from her mind. She keeps on forgetting he's just seventeen. _Just a kid_. "I'm okay, Vaan," she says with as much strength as she can muster. "I'm fine –"

"Don't _do_ that Tifa," Vaan's face is twisted with worry and anger. "Don't you think we've lost enough already? And then you go ahead and do stupid stuff like that?"

Tifa scrambles to her feet, pulling Vaan up with her. "I won't anymore. I promise, okay. But we gotta get out of here."

"What are you –"

The ground beneath their feet is already starting to rumble, and shock abbreviates whatever Vaan was going to say. Out of the corner of her eye, Tifa can see Cid's statue start to glow a heady shade of white. At its base though, she notices a single crystal tear that wasn't there before.

"No time to explain," Tifa grabs his hand and starts bolting back towards the mouth of the cavern, pausing only to snatch the tear off the ground. "You were right. I _really_ shouldn't have touched that."

"Told you," he replies although there's no hint of satisfaction in his voice.

Everything in the cavern is shaking now, rocked by the pressure that pulses out in incandescent circles from Cid's statue. In the wake of the force, the clockwork battalion collapses – tin soldiers, as flimsy and insignificant as the dead humans who made them. Ancient walls groan and throw off violent chunks of fossilized stone, some of which slam hard into Tifa's body but none of which slow her down.

_Gotta get to that tunnel, _she thinks, closing her hand around Vaan's wrist. Sweat lubricates her hold on his skin, but when he nearly slips from her grasp she feels him speed up and slide her hand firmly into his.

"Got you Teefs," his grip is stronger than she assumed it would be.

The rocks that are coming loose from the ceiling are boulders now, and they have to dodge and duck faster than either of them can actually really move. And even though Tifa knows she should be concentrating on getting them _out of there_, she can't help but notice that the fragments of art that are raining off the walls seem to be crumbling in a weird kind of order. Tiny crystal planet first. Giant crystal pillar second.

_What __**is **__this place?_

They're_ so_ close. Tifa's legs are pounding the impacted floor of the cavern so hard and fast she can't tell heelstrike from toe-off. _Almost there._ _**Almost.**_

Dust has absolute dominion in the air. It clogs Tifa's nostrils, coats her throat, raids her vision. She can't see anything. She can't hear anything. Her senses are illusions with malicious intent. The entire world is groaning, cracking rock and the shattering-glass sound of crystal crushing – _oh those poor __**people, **__those __**kids**__. _But there isn't time for remorse. Their only hope is that tunnel. The way they came in. _Please, please, please let it still be open._

The directions that they're running in are completely irrational. It's possible they're going in circles. Tifa's about to lose hope when she thinks she finally sees it, the curve of the arch that leads into the passageway, back to that door. _There it is_. _There it is. But oh no. Oh __**shit.**_

It's Vaan who stops them from barreling into the tunnel before it collapses. Somehow, he notices the mouth of it vomit heaps of black dirt and stone, and he pulls her back before she yanks them through.

"We are. _So. Screwed,"_ he coughs, using his free hand to guard his mouth.

_Yes, yes we are_.

Cid's statue is blazing white. Holy white, in all its blinding, burning, horrible glory. She can't look. It slices her eyes. So she squeezes them shut and blankets herself in dark. The only thing she wants to feel is Vaan's arms as they close around her in a last ditch effort to keep the collapsing cavern from crushing them both.

_He doesn't have broad shoulders,_ she thinks, squeezing him back with everything she has, _but they're firm enough_. And as tears leak from her eyelids, Tifa knows there's no question, no question at all, that if they live through this, Vaan's going to grow up to be a better man than anyone gives him credit for.

She shudders, braces herself. Beneath her cheek, she feels Vaan's quick intake of breath, and as a final, mighty crash of stone resounds in her ears, she waits for something to fall on her, to crush her ribs and finally end this. She waits…

And then suddenly the stone rain stops.

And she _waits_. Vaan's grip loosens.

And _waits_. "Uh, Tifa…Um…Maybe you oughtta turn around…"

_What? _

Pulling back, Tifa opens her eyes to a rising dawn of brown-orange dust, shot through with light that's still eye-searingly bright. Around them, the ground is still shaking and the cavern still collapsing, but they seem to be caged in an alcove made of enormous stone fingers. _That statue …must've fallen…_

Squinting, Tifa raises her hand to her forehead and tries to get enough shade to see by. _Who's there?_ And as Vaan steps out of her blurry vision, she shakes her head. Blinks. Then shakes her head again. Blinks again.

_Oh. _

There, standing in the nova-bright gap between the statue's thumb and forefinger, is the silhouette of Tifa Lockheart's most cherished ghost. And she's petting the palm of the stone beast as if it were some kind of oversized kitten.

"I rescued you once, when you didn't need it," Aerith Gainsborough says, smiling. "I thought I'd save the next time for a real emergency."

* * *

><p>The manikins that are coming at them are all <em>wrong.<em>

It's not that they aren't dangerous. They are, _plenty. _But they're all the wrong shapes. Between furious strikes, Lightning can make out angles that _seem_ like faces, at first glance, but the longer she looks them, the more she realizes that_ no_, they're not quite right. Where there ought to be noses, the crystal turns in on itself in melted, prolapsed curves_._ Where there should be mouths, there are jagged breaks, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to a pile of quartz. _And their __**eyes**__ – _Lightning distracts herself by flipping Enkindler to gun form and blowing one of their heads clear off – _their eyes seem almost scared._

They're disgusting, _diseased_. Not just replicas, but half-formed replicas. _Or maybe half-aborted._ Lightning can't decide which. Swallowing hard, she fights down a wave of nausea. These things were made to be destroyed.

It's the only fate they deserve.

_Die, _Lightning blinks and the desert sun refracts through a sick kaleidoscope of amputated crystal limbs. _All of you, __**die. Right**__ – _ she pivots, snapping her weapon back into sword form _– __**fucking – **_the _thing_ that's in front of her has Tifa's beautiful face _– __**now**__ – _she weaves under an obvious feint, smiles, and then runs the damn thing through.

Lightning closes her eyes as it dies. Dully, she notices that the sound Enkindler makes as she unsheathes it from the shattered crystal stomach is like the sound of a whetstone against a razor edge. A clean, sturdy thing that clears her senses and stills her mind.

The desert is calm and bright around her, and these creatures will not touch her. They will not touch her friends. A smile lights the rim of Lightning's lips before her eyes sail open again and she launches herself forward, looking for something else to kill.

The noises and smells of the fight invade the gritty, arid sky. Steel shrieks against crystal in an allegretto storm of blocks. Gunpowder and grease and smoke burn up and stick inside her nostrils. Liquid crystal congeals on her clothes and face in luminous splatter. The creatures are everywhere, but she couldn't care less. They all come apart easily beneath the weight of her blade. She moves on instinct, now. Enkindler is her arm, her blood and bone and sinew. The only thing in the universe is _that_ thrust, and _this _parry, and you will die _now,_ garbage. _**Screaming.**_

It barely registers on Lightning when she backs into Kain and Laguna who've formed a wedge with Yuna between. Laguna's maybe got three magazines of ammo left, but his greasy face is smiling as he uses the hand of his broken arm to lock and load his MP7.

"Hey look guys," he throws a wink over his shoulder as he empties half the rounds into a Warrior-shaped grotesquerie. "One hand!"

"One and a _half_," Kain corrects, dancing back under a whirling strike from a Cloud-thing that misses his exposed neck by inches.

Lightning narrows her eyes. _Sloppy. Slow._ "Try not to _die,_" she hisses at him.

Using both hands to swirl Gungir into a semi-circular block, Kain knocks back a subsequent blow with a straining grimace. "No need," he mocks, amethyst eyes burning as he rolls forward into the gap and shoves the radiant point of his lance into the creature's neck. "Some things in life you just _do, _no Lightning?"

Making a small spitting noise, Lightning doesn't even look back over her shoulder as she rounds her body clockwise to meet the next strike.

_Whatever._

It's then that she starts to feel it. Even as she's spinning backwards to dodge another riposte – a motion as automatic to her as breath – she can sense magic that she didn't summon spread its wings beneath her skin. _Something's wrong. _The jagged outline of her brand is burning again. _What? __**No. **__I don't __**need **__this now__**. **__I don't __**want**__ this now. _Power surges through pulsing veins and screaming nerves. The blood-sealed scabs on her breast blister and flake. _This is all wrong._ She looks down. _I'm not trying to cast this spell._ Her hands are glowing, sickly green. It's the same light that slits the threadbare fabric of her turtleneck.

Words slide into Lightning's mind, she doesn't know from where. The leech on her chest can't _talk_ but she thinks she hears a voice anyway, and it's sick, distorted, evil. She _hates _it.

"_Lindzei comes. The viper. You must destroy her, Pulse L'Cie…your focus…destroy…"_

Lightning drops her blade, doubles over, starts to scream. There's so much magic in her blood, she feels like it's leaking from every orifice. Pores, nostrils, mouth, tear ducks. _Am I crying?_

It hurts so much, she honestly doesn't know.

"Light? _Light!_" Yuna's voice, but Lightning barely hears it. In the corners of her perception, men bark order and counter-order at each other, but the words are meaningless babble, pointless syllables knocking against the gates of her mind.

Something is pulling her into the sky. The angles of her body are the pulled joints of a marionette. The ground beneath her feet disappears but the shapes, the _shapes _of the magic are so clear in her vision that they become the scope of the known world. The red diamond of fire. The grey cylinder of wind. The inverted white triangle of lightning. The blue circle of water. _Water. Yes, __**water**__. _

Everything fades away. Name. Family. Friends. _Who am I? Doesn't matter. What am I doing here? _She feels her chapped lips move simultaneously with the voice that's invaded her mind. Together, they state the answer.

"_Destroy." _

And she does. Oh she _does. _The blue circle that pulses in her mind is the door through which the power flows. She bends it to her will. It belongs to her. And then from the palms of her hand, she feels it. Typhoons. Gales. Columns of water so thick and powerful they scar the desert. Her wild eyes are unfocused and clouded with the white tint of magic, but still, she can see the figures beneath her scatter. All of the crystal ones seem to shatter while the flesh colored ones roll in every direction, panicking.

"_Destroy."_

Lightning keeps on going. She's not the teeth of the storm. She's its eye. Still and invincible. The destruction below here isn't enough. She must have more.

She closes her fist and power rises in her, certain as dawn.

"_Destroy her…"_

_Yes. _She opens her palms, commands its release. But then it betrays her.

As quickly as Lightning was possessed with it, the magic vanishes. The power she was calling to her hands is suddenly gone, as if an unseen will simply turned off the faucet, or closed its hand over a leak.

_It's gone._

Bereft, Lightning's bleary eyes widen. Her strings are cut. She falls.

"Light!" a woman screeches from somewhere on earth.

The sudden withdrawal of the magic from her bloodstream is painful – _tiny knives, tiny knives slitting her veins from the inside out – _and Lightning's barely holding on to the edge of reason. She doesn't know where she is, only that she's hurtling through the atmosphere, and that the air is wet and it soaks through the fabric of her turtleneck and pools in the dents and hollows of her body. _So much power. _Even the fading edges of it sing in her fingertips, shimmer in the electric spider-web of her brain. Uneven gusts of wind twist her boneless body in a U-shape as she plummets, but she feels nothing. Only emptiness.

The ground is coming at her. She doesn't care.

_Come back._

Lighting's so lost in her broken mind that her bruised and burning skin barely registers the feel of arms as they close around her, the sensation of a sudden reversal of trajectory through the soaking sky. She hears words – soft human-sounding ones that play at comfort – but she doesn't really know what they mean, who they're coming from.

"I have you," she hears. "Hold on. Be still, Lightning, _please_."

Nothing is reaching her. This person who's talking doesn't make any _sense_. She's panicked and thrashing and she tears at something that feels like a seam of flesh and string. Wildly, she pulls at it and feels it snap underneath her fingernails. _Take that. _New blood is and wet and warm and sticky soft under her fingers. _Now let me go. __**Let me go. **__"_Let me go."

"_Not. Likely. Lightning," _the voice that barges into the cavern of her ear is harder now, and tight with pain. "Now_ be still_. You're _safe._"

His words pull Lightning back from wherever she is. She shakes her head looks down at her blood slicked hands. _Kain. Sky. Magic. Water. Manikins. Yuna. Laguna. Shit. Oh __**Shit. **_She's trembling. The world finally snaps back into familiar patterns and features, but she's still trembling and she can't stop.

_What have I done?_

"There you are," Kain mutters through gritted teeth.

Lightning doesn't answer, forces herself to stop shaking. She needs to get his blood off her hands, so she wipes it arbitrarily on the filth-softened fabric of her miniskirt, on the tender expanses of her inner thighs. If Kain notices her disgust, the way she's using her own flesh to clear her fingers of black carbon and red plasma, he doesn't say anything. He simply pulls her closer, and his arms as they close around her are equal parts cradle and restraint.

_Calm down. Calm down. _She will not let herself be ruled by anything. Not gods or demons or fear or anything else. Ever again. _So calm. The hell. Down. _

For some reason, it's the controlled wildness of Kain's velocity as they arch through the atmosphere that finally soothes her. The air caresses her, slides like elixir into stressed out lungs, slips through the open seams in her turtleneck and soothes her boiling brand. And as they reach the apex of his jump, there's a moment – _oh why just one_ – where they're suspended together in the sky, neither racing higher nor falling to earth. It's only the meanest shadow of a second, but if Lightning lets herself, she can believe that she's free in every possible way.

_Ha. _Lightning closes her eyes against the diamond brightness of day. _He's broken_, she thinks incoherently, _but Kain Highwind can __**fly**_.

They return to the earth with impossible softness, and Lightning can feel how Kain bends his knees and curls his spine to absorb the shock of landing. Expert muscles follow the momentum with grace and fluidity, and she feels nothing but gentle strength in his arms as he rises back to a standing position. But all the practiced ease in his body can't hide how exhausted he is, how torn-up and shaken and uncertain, and after a step, he stumbles and they fall – entwined as bloody, gritty strands of rope – to the darkened sand below.

He says nothing. Neither does she. And in the insane light of the decimated morning, they lie in a limp tangle of limbs, just breathing.

Lightning's eyelids crack open, and through grainy, spotted vision she stares at the disaster she's caused. Manikin bits are everywhere. Broken crystal torsos and shattered crystal faces and armless crystal hands scar the horizon in luminous ruin. Intricate tributaries of water write shimmering calligraphy in dense flats of wet sand. She's created an impact crater, a twenty-foot hole in the desert that reminds Lightning of nothing so much as the blast radius of a grenade.

_I could've killed them all._ Her body is wild with renewed trembling. _I could've…_

"Shhh," Kain closes a battered hand over hers and rolls them to a sitting position but otherwise doesn't let her go. "Shhh," he repeats again, into the bruised webbing of her neck and for a second Lightning can't tell who's shaking. She clutches at his hand as if it's the only thing she's got to hold onto.

_What the fuck just happened…_

Dizzy, Lightning is still shuddering by the time Laguna's sprinted over to them. "Holy shit_," _he says. "Holy _shit_." He's drenched and there's no smile on his gentle face, but his shadow is cool as it falls over her burning skin.

"Light! _Light – _are you okay?" Yuna's scrambled to the flattened sand in front of them, and her hands are everywhere at once. Brushing slim, rose tendrils of hair from her grease and crystal splattered face, wiping what remains of Kain's blood from her hands, soothing...soothing everything.

"I…I don't know," she answers, and her voice sounds abstract and weak to her ears. She can barely recognize it. "_Shit, _Yuna, I don't – "

"Hey now," Laguna interrupts, kneeling down and setting his good hand – his good, strong right hand – on her shoulder. "Don't sweat it. You _did _take care of the manikins, after all. Besides," he pauses, shaking black, stringy wet hair from his eyes. "At least now we have _water_."

There's a quiet pause, and then Lightning feels a soft rumble of mirth in Kain's chest. "A point, from our Lord Captain of the obvious."

A small, delirious giggle that Lightning swallows builds in her throat, distracting her from the pain, the confusion, the horror. _Of all the stupid…_ "You're an _idiot_, Laguna."

Laguna's hand tightens on her shoulder. "See," he smiles at her. "You'll be just _fine._"

_Maybe. But __**you **__I almost killed. _Gritting her teeth, Lightning looks away. "But I still don't – "

"I do," Yuna cuts her off, and when she speaks her voice is distant, her eyes, troubled. "I think I do, anyway. Something's happened, Light. You…tore through it...the will that's keeping the magic damp, just for a second. _I wonder…_"

Yuna leans forward, and before Lightning can stop her, she's unzipped her turtleneck and peeled the fabric back. Lightning winces as strands of wool that are half-stuck, half-melted into to her blistered chest pull out, one blood-soaked thread at time at a time. Everything smells like burnt flesh, and she stifles a sudden wave of nausea.

_Oh no. Please no._

Gasping, Yuna puts her hand to her mouth. Laguna whistles through his teeth. Kain's hand closes over hers like a vice.

_Please don't be true._

Beneath the charred scabs, liquid black traces the arrowed-headed teeth of her once bleached-out, static brand - lurid, living obsidian against white, white skin.

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER: <strong>A moment's respite gives the party time to piece together their thoughts, but does the pattern that emerges make any sense at all? Also, who is the strange man in white who seems to know so much about Aerith – and everything else? Is he the secret to leading them home?

**A/N: **For those who haven't played XIII. White brand = you don't turn into a zombie Cie'th. Black brand = yes you do. In headcanon!Dissidia, I always imagined Lightning's brand was stalled, so as to avoid her turning into a zombie in the middle of the war.


	4. CIII: Where the Wanderers Are

Chapter III: Where the Wanderers Are

**Thanks (1):** To Distant Glory who rightly convinced me to get myself a beta. She is mercilessly wonderful, and anyone who thinks differently I shall fisticuff. *winks*  
><strong>Thanks (2):<strong> To inkie and anonymous reviewers and all reviewers, much love to you. I don't believe that I'm owed reviews for writing this (people should only do so if they're really moved by what I write), but getting them certainly sprinkles fairy dust smiles on my face. It's nice to know that you like reading it as much as I like writing it.  
><strong>Angsty-longalicious re-warning: <strong>I make no bones about the approach I take in this piece. It's a dark story with grown-up themes, outcomes and character interactions. Oh, and profanity. Fluff makes cameo appearances, but angst-ridden adventure is the star.

* * *

><p>"Only now is the child finally divested of all that he has been. His origins are become removed as is his destiny and not again in all the world's turning will there be terrains so wild and barbarous to try whether the stuff of creation may be shaped to man's will, or whether his own heart is not another kind of clay."<p>

Cormac McCarthy, _Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West_

* * *

><p>Tifa Lockhart can't help but feel sorry for the stone giant that's cradling her and Vaan and Aerith in its granite palm. <em>He walks like an old man,<em> she thinks, letting her eyes drift out over the stony knolls of its flesh to the shark-toothed rock some fifty feet below. _With a limp._

_He's probably tired_, she concludes, relaxing back into the rhythmically quaking hand. She can relate to that. It's been a long, long journey, after all. Uncountable miles in just a few hours, most of it flying or jumping or something else that seems like it takes _a lot_ of effort. It's no wonder, really, that when the poor thing finally starts walking that it's a bit wobbly. That just like the rest of them, it's tired and would prefer, probably, just to sit down.

Exhaustion tears Tifa's eyes, weighs down every muscle in her body, but still she stares in awe. The caves they're travelling through are large enough to be a gateway to the whole universe. Everything's black-lit by some faraway light, and Tifa's t-shirt – along with anything else that's white – is glow-in-the-dark bright. Colossal stalagmites surge up from a treacherous floor. Imagination-defying stalactites hang from an atmospheric ceiling. And on every point of stone, beads of mineralized water twinkle, captive constellations and low hanging stars. _Something to wish on_, Tifa thinks, smiling. Although given who she's sitting with, she's not sure she should be allowed to have any more wishes.

"Looks like your Menhirrim-pet-guy needs a break, Aerith," Tifa says eventually to the used-to-be-dead woman beside her. Silently, she laces her filthy human fingers into slender Cetra ones that are whiter than snow or milk or any other pure thing Tifa can think of right now.

They glow, too.

"Soon enough," Aerith replies, and the green eyes that Tifa pulled shut herself – _the lids were soft and cold then, like play-doh – _glimmer in the supernatural dark. "We'll be at a place where we can _all_ rest soon enough."

Tifa sighs, tightens her grip on her friend. The past few days or so haven't exactly been calming. And even now, as relatively safe as she is,rabid images prowl the alleys of her mind.

_A graveyard collapsing in a kingdom of dust…  
><em>_ Mako-poisoned eyes rotting in a beloved face...  
><em>_A shattered crystal man weeping broken crystal tears…  
><em>_ The match is winking out. She's **falling**, she's falling but she isn't_….

Tifa should be afraid to close her eyes. She should be afraid to _breathe_. But there isn't room in her breast for fear or regret or grief or anything else. Because Aerith – _their_ Aerith, of toxic Midgar's tiny flowers, of the holiest holy magic there ever was _–_ is _alive_ and _here _and she _remembers._

They both remember…everything.

Words don't really work. Almost anything Tifa thinks of to say gets stuck in her mouth. So instead, as the colossus takes its lurching steps towards wherever it's taking them, she contents herself with leaving her hands knotted with Aerith's. _It's okay,_ Tifa lets herself believe, _maybe. Maybe this is the beginning of everything being okay._ Her eyes flit downward. Their intertwined fingers are a study in porcelain-white and soot-black, a lesson in ties and what they bind.

"Guys," Vaan's riding the statue's thumb like it's a racing-chocobo, and his expression as he turns to face them is bright with excitement_._ "How cool is this? _Seriously_, how cool is this?"

"Vaan," Tifa chides. "Shouldn't you get down from there?"

"Really, Teefs?_ C'mon._" Vaan's sharp features resolve into a glare. "Weren't _you_ the one who felt up the haunted statue in the first place? You don't get to lecture anybody."

Aerith giggles. "Was it at least a _cute_ haunted statue?"

"You better believe it." Tifa smiles and lays her battered cheek against Aerith's bare shoulder. "I've got _standards_, you know."

"It's only the _best _for Tifa," Aerith responds, and her voice is warm with enough mischief that it almost, _almost_, fills up some of Tifa's empty spaces. The laughing, sunlit, Aerith-shaped ones she only just remembered she had.

_She's just like I remember. __**Just**__ like…_Closing her eyes, in exhaustion or gratitude or both, Tifa offers a silent prayer to absent gods, just in case. Just in case something might come and snatch this away from her. Again.

_Thank you for giving her back, whoever you are. Thank you so much. _

As if reading her mind, Aerith laughs a musical laugh and leans her head against Tifa's midnight tresses. And for a moment, sheltered in the insane landscape of an impossible world, it seems like no time has passed between them, and that neither of them has lost anything, anything at all.

"So, um, _Aerith_," It's Vaan who throws a stone into the warm silence, swiveling off the granite thumb and folding himself into a neat Indian position in front of them. "Thanks for the save and all," he rests his chin in his open right hand, "but um, now that we're clear, would you mind telling us what the _hell_ all that was? And, you know, what you're _doing_ here_?_ Last time I checked, weren't you stuck in Dissidia?"

Under her cheek and fingers, Tifa feels the questions pull Aerith's muscles taut and clench her tiny fists. She waits a few moments before answering, and when she does, her soft soprano has notes in it that Tifa can't recognize. "I was waiting for you to ask that," she says finally.

"Uh, okay…" Vaan prods, scratching his head. The answerless seconds race each other forward. "_Well_?"

"I'm sorry Vaan." Aerith shakes her head. Deliberately – _arm by finger by cheek_ – she disentangles herself from Tifa before continuing. "Where do I even start? It…it was _supposed_ to be an act of mercy, bringing you here. No-one expected you to fall where you did. No-one expected you'd disturb her."

"You mean Lindzei?" It's Tifa who speaks next, and as she does, Cid Raines' dead, beautiful voice twists through her brain. _'I mean that you will die…'_ She shudders. "Aerith, who _**is **_she?"

"They call her the 'viper goddess' here," Aerith responds, toying with the thin straps of her white silk shift. "Guardian of her father's sleep and her sister's… prison. And now that Raines has warned her, she'll come with her Undying…We need to hide you. _Right away_."

Tifa bites her lower lip. "Raines said…Raines said he was damning us, that she'd – "

"Destroy you?" Aerith cuts her off. "Not if we can help it. But Raines is right about one thing. She'll level anything or anyone that threatens her father's rest," she pauses to push a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "or her sister's chains."

"I don't get it," Vaan's pulled his hunting knife out of his ruined vest and is thumbing the point in agitation. Over the glittering edge, his eyes snap with suspicion. "Where did all _these_ guys come from? Isn't this Chaos and Cosmos' fight?"

"Oh Vaan," a strange, unquiet laugh escapes Aerith's lips as she fixes her eyes on some distant point in front of them, someplace Tifa can't see. "Chaos and Cosmos are the _least _of our problems now."

It's a dull quiet that jockeys for position between them as the edges of Aerith's words retreat into silence, and for the first time – amidst all of the giggles and all of the hugs and smiles they've traded in the last few hours – Tifa notices that the doll-perfect features are tighter now, _older_. Bluish circles spread beneath her eyes. Lustrous brown hair has shed both its luminous shine and its pink ribbon_,_ and Tifa knows suddenly that she's wrong. Aerith isn't _just_ the way she remembers her.

Not _really_.

Tifa blinks, examines the set of Aerith's lips a little bit closer. And as much as she loves Vaan, she wishes he'd stop asking questions now. Just for a _second. _Just until she figures out what Aerith's hiding in her eyes.

He doesn't.

"Aerith," he glances over the point of his knife, nervous now. "No offence. But can I get, like, a real answer_?_"

"Soon enough, Vaan," Aerith's voice is soft, but it brooks no argument. "You don't understand how much danger you're in, honey. We have to keep _quiet_. The Rift –"

"Wait," Vaan interrupts, and it's the level, point blank seriousness of his voice that freezes Aerith's lips in place. "The _Rift?_ We're stuck in the _**Rift**__?_"

Aerith looks confused. "Of course you are. Where did you _think _you were?"

Vaan's furious when he answers, and Tifa can finally see the weight of the last few days crack his expression. "I don't know. Somebody's homeworld maybe. Some other _new_ place but not the damn _Rift,_" he spits out the last word and gestures with his hunting knife to still, indifferent air. "I thought we _sealed_ the Rift. That was the _whole point_ wasn't it?"

"Shhh Vaan," Aerith tries to soothe, looking even more confused than before. "I thought you knew. Where else – "

"Don't 'shhh' me Aerith," Vaan snaps. "We ran into that place – fought _all those manikins, _gave up our whole _future, _probably – and you're telling me it was for _nothing_? That we just fell right in and didn't help the others at _all_?

Aerith shakes her head, and her fraying braid bobs behind her. The expression on her face is pained – almost _bitter_. "No, that's not what I'm telling you. That's not…The Rift _is_ sealed. It's just…you're inside."

Understanding pricks over Vaan's face, deflates his expression entirely. "_What?_"

"The Rift _is_ sealed," Aerith repeats, and anything odd - or un-Aerith like about her dissolves, at least for a second, in the liquid kindness Tifa hears in her voice. "And you're inside."

A tinny clatter rings in Tifa's ears as Vaan drops his hunting knife in the palm of the Menhirrim's massive hand. His pulled-string body slumps, and he looks for all the world like someone just punched him square in the gut.

"No," is all he says.

_No, _Tifa's mind echoes. Refusing to tremble, she closes her eyes._ Of course. That __**Cloud**__ manikin…_ She doesn't know how she could have been so stupid, but then realizes just how badly she didn't want to believe. There's _**nothing**_ in the Rift. _Cosmos said…when we left that last time…_ She takes a deep breath before opening her eyes and letting the world back in_._ "Are we stuck here Aerith?"

"No," Aerith collects Tifa's hands in hers again. "That's what I was trying to tell you. You're _not. _We just…have to take you to Her Providence. We need to bring you to the Door of Souls."

Tifa doesn't understand. All she hears is babble, sounds that don't have any meaning. "Aerith, who are you talking about? _What_ are you talking about?"

Aerith doesn't meet her eyes. "I'll _tell_ you Tifa," she says after a while. "But not right now. The Rift is filled with traps, with things that are and aren't real at exactly the same time. I can't…When we get someplace _safe_, I promise…I…we'll tell you what we can."

Tifa doesn't answer, she just lays her head back against the bouldered skin of the Menhirrim's index finger and waits for Vaan to ask the obvious question. "Who's _we_?"

A butterfly smile touches Aerith's lips. "You'll see."

They don't talk after that. And for miles and miles, there's only the hyper-real sensations of impossible things. The shuddering impact of fifty-ton footsteps over the spine of an ancient path. The incongruous human softness of the alien stone that bears them. The wheezing sound of granite, as it breathes.

When Vaan finally speaks again, his voice is quiet enough that it barely floats on top of the silence. But Tifa can tell by the knots in his brows that he's been thinking, so she makes sure to lean forward, to catch his words as they fall.

"Hey Aerith," he asks, fiddling with his retrieved knife. "That cavern, those crystal people…um…was that one of the traps you were talking about?"

Tifa tenses. She hears the hope nesting in Vaan's question. That those poor people…those kids…that maybe it wasn't _real_…and maybe they…maybe…

"No," Aerith replies, looking Vaan straight in the eye. She's ruthless now, in her honesty. "That was a laboratory."

Bowing her head and closing her eyes, Tifa puffs air through her teeth. She feels like she's trapped in a lunatic asylum_._ And while being stuck in Dissidia was no picnic, at least there she knew which way was up and which way was down, _who the good guys were_…

Squeezing her eyes tighter, Tifa lets the Menhirrim's steady gait pace her dizzy thoughts. Each reverberation rocks through her body, rattles her teeth, distracts her. It feels like she's punching someone, hard. And it feels very, _very _good. Until, without warning, it stops.

_What?_

"Whoah," Vaan says.

It's a sudden change of pace, and Tifa's eyes sail open. Her jaw drops. And suddenly, she doesn't need any more distractions.

_Holy shit. So __**that's **__where that light was coming from…_

There's no more cave in front of them. Or rather, there's still _cave_, but there's more than that too. Tifa would call it an underground river system, but the indescribably high waterfall that feeds it flows with phosphorescent liquid that is _absolutely_ not water. Quartz-speckled limestone riots with reflected light. Silver trees cling to ridiculous cliffs and are so ethereal and unreal that they remind Tifa of all the wonderful drawings in children's books, the ones where things like cloud castles and invincible summers and happy endings are all deliriously possible.

"We're here," Aerith announces, rising to her feet.

"Where's _here?_" Vaan asks, dumbstruck.

"The Limit Break," Aerith answers. "It's one of the raw mana sources, here in the Rift. There's enough power here for you to hide, for now. It'll disguise your energy. When she comes, she won't be able to feel you here, at least at first."

"It's _so beautiful_," Tifa whispers, standing up. "It's like the Lifestream…"

"I know," Aerith answers. "I've been here a while, and it's just as gorgeous, every time."

It's probably something in the way that Aerith says '_I know_' or the way she keeps casually mentioning how long she's been here, but for some reason, the words pluck at the threads of suspicion that have been sneaking through Tifa's mind. And even though she doesn't really want to know the answer, she feels her mouth form around the question anyway.

"Aerith," she starts, putting her hand over Aerith's neck. _Her skin's so __**warm**__…_"One thing you didn't answer…what are _you_ doing here? You weren't with us at the Empyreal Paradox. And Cosmos _said_, she said when we went to fight the manikins…that nothing from Dissidia could get in here alive…"

"Oh Tifa." Aerith tucks a lock of filthy hair behind Tifa's oversized ear and smiles a rueful smile. "Who said I was alive?"

* * *

><p>Laguna isn't all that impressed with Bahamut's directions. '<em>Walk against what this place knows as a sun… you will find a path to one who will help you.'<em>

_Okay, sure. _Sounds simple enough. And who is he to question the words of the 'King of Dragons,' anyway.

Except, _yeah. Yeah, __**fucking**__ right_.

Now, Laguna's the first to admit that he's not the best at shortcuts or long-cuts or navigation _generally_, but really_._ Leaving aside there isn't an actual sun here – _more like chubby clouds that look like day-glo marshmallows_ – they've reached the end of the line, the actual 'hey, there's no more floating desert to stumble through' end of the line, and well. How can he put this? There's _nothing_. To be accurate, _less_ than nothing_._ Just crumbling horizon that falls off into complete, dead space.

Adjusting the saliva-soaked rag he's tied around his face to keep sand from his mouth, Laguna coughs and wonders why in Hyne's name anybody thought following a dead dragon's orders was a good idea. After all, Laguna's pretty sure he wouldn't be giving great advice if he'd been half-eaten and then knocked out of the sky.

_Lack of a better idea,_ he answers his own question and arches a wry brow.

Standing at the shattered edge of the known universe, Laguna squints his eyes and glares at the sand-blasted world around him. The sun is setting - _or the marshmallows are shrinking, or whatever_ - and it coats everything in a rusty, uneven glow. Not that it makes a difference. Orange sand or yellow sand, it's the same psycho desert they've all come to know and hate_. _Drumming his fingers on the scoured grip of his MP7, he rolls his right shoulder, trying to work out a knot. His left arm still throbs like a bitch, and now – as luck would have it – he feels like some rabid moogle has taken a bite out of the muscles of his neck. _Awesome. _

He can't stop thinking about what's happened to them. The rapidly cooling air lifts hair from his shoulders, and the only thing that's in his mind – other than the hot, persistent swelling in his left arm – is the debris of the last few days. Aimless, it floats like ash through his exhausted mind. Squall Leonheart's perfectly contemptuous eyes melt into the demon's ruined face. Kain's bright blood paints the yellow desert every shade of crimson, then swirls into that sick halo that stuck to Lightning when she…_when she_…Well, when whatever the hell it was happened, happened.

He also thinks of Yuna's fingers. Yuna's miracle fingers in the small of his back, unwinding knots of fear and pain in a way that strums chords in his memory and makes him happy-sad-anxious, all at the same time.

Snorting a quick laugh, he smells the rankness of his own breath as it lingers in the cloth. _Yeah, the massage was nice._ Everything else, basically bullshit.

Laguna crouches, picks up a fist of sand and throws it away. They've been walking in shifts for almost two straight days since Lightning pulled that demon-possession stunt. No more than three hours staggered sleep between fitful bursts of travel. And whether they've been keeping the pace to find the answers or just to keep themselves from having nightmares, Laguna can't tell. He isn't sure he cares.

_Running to the future. Running away from the past. Same difference. Whatever keeps you going works. _He's not picky. So long as at the end of the day they get to someplace where he can get a shower. Or a bed. Or, hell, anything that might keep 'dead' away from them for a little while longer.

"_Laguna,_" A voice cuts back over the rising dark from a few paces in front of him. Highwind. "Are you coming? Or shall I continue myself?"

"Coming, coming," Laguna gets up to face him and notices the way the dull orange light turns all the bloodstains on Kain's sweat and crystal-stiffened doublet a uniform shade of brown_._ "Hold on to your dragons."

Kain shakes his head in reply. "Hmpf. How witty," he mutters and then turns to jump forward. In his wake idle puffs of sand poof in patterns that trace the evening wind.

"I know," Laguna retorts, half to himself. Sighing, he casts one last look at the shattered horizon before loping off after Kain's rapidly receding shadow.

They run in silence for a while, and Laguna clenches his jaw against the way the jarring motion sends spikes of pain through his broken arm and messed up neck. He's at a complete loss as to why Kain was so keen on dragging him out here. It's not like the scenery's changed. _Broken horizon, other floating hell islands, sand waterfalls (sandfalls?)__**, yadda, yadda, yadda**_. It's a _waste_ of _time_. They should be back at camp trying to figure out the answers to their real problems. Like actually finding something to eat. Or getting Yuna some mana before she passes out. Or finding a way to stop that _thing _that's eating its way across Lightning's breast…

Laguna sucks cool air in under his teeth and then spits as the salty grit sticks to his tongue. She's in bad shape. Like shell-shocked to hell, wild, haunted-eyed, PTSD bad shape. And that's not the worst of it either. The worst part is that, _yeah_ he can see it. Whatever made Lightning Farron part white mage, part black mage and all killing machine planted seeds of monster in her. And now every time he looks at her, that's what he sees. The thing she'll turn into if they can't find a way to stop this Lindzei person-thing-god-whatever.

He won't lie. It scares the heebiejebus out of him. Though probably not half as much as it scares her.

Picking up the pace, Laguna shivers as the beads of hot sweat on his neck meet cold air. He can't help but shake the feeling that this place is alive, that it has some kind of _intent._ Everything here is designed to disorient them, confuse them, hit them below the belt. Yuna's dragon, Lightning's brand, Kain's armor, that fucking _hole_ in his memory where Squall and that girl and that demon are squatting_,_ threatening him with…_something_. The past or the future. _Both._

He keeps running. It hurts his arm and his neck, but at least it gives him something to do that isn't dwelling on bullshit. It isn't like him to get so caught up in his underwear. _Focus Loire,_ he lowers his head against the paltry resistance of the wind. And as he barrels forward he barely notices the way his left leg is pulling just slightly, how his boot seems to be sinking a little faster on that side. It isn't _really_ until he feels slow-sand accelerate to fast-sand, until the desert starts dragging him out to its killing edge that he finally realizes that he shouldn't get stuck in his own head when racing the perimeter a floating island in the middle of fucking space.

_Oh shit_. Laguna yanks his leg back and throws his weight right. Unbalanced by the momentum, he falls over into the desert floor. Impotent puffs of sand whoosh up around his ears, mocking.

"Pay _attention_, Laguna." Kain barks again, coming to a dead stop and swiveling around to glare at him. "You're no fair maid. I've no wish to rescue you."

Rolling back to a sitting position, Laguna snorts a laugh before checking his splint. _Yep, all there._ "You should try relaxing sometime, High-horse," he retorts after a moment. "I'm all good here. Don't you trust me?"

"Unquestionably," Kain smirks, striding back towards him and holding out his arm. "On falling, dying? There's none I trust more."

Pulling himself up by Kain's forearm, Laguna shakes his head. "Anyone ever tell you you're a bit of a prick, Kain."

"Regularly," Kain smiles a rare, dusk shadowed smile. "Now mind your step."

"Sure," Laguna replies, dusting himself off and narrowing his eyes. "_One_ condition though."

"What?" Kain crosses his arms. His sleeves are rolled, and the ochre light throws a corded patchwork of muscle and scab and scar into sharp relief.

"You tell me why you dragged me out here," Laguna responds, looking away. "Not that the scenery isn't _romantic _and all," he winks, "but Light's pretty busted up. We're probably better off trying to figure out how to get her some help than playing I-spy-more-flying-desert-islands."

Kain's shadowed expression flickers and resolves into a stony glare. "I've no intention of leaving her unaided. _None._"

"_Then?_"

"Patience," Kain replies, before turning back around and rushing ahead in another forward jump.

_Patience?_ Laguna rolls his eyes. He's been travelling with Kain for a while, and now he's certain that the guy uses his private arm-fold time to practice answering questions in the most obtuse way possible. It's worse than talking to Squall. At least he just says _nothing. "_Patience,"he mutters, sprints sprinting after him. "Lighten up on the smoke and dagger, will you Highwind?"

"_Cloak._ And momentarily," Kain responds, finally coming to a full stop at an outcropping about twenty meters ahead. Standing inches back from the sandfall, he unhooks his lance from his left shoulder and gestures out into the distance. "There."

Laguna sighs and jogs up beside him. As far as he can see, Kain's pointed Gungir off a cliff and straight out into nowhere. Off towards more stupid floating deserts and thier grass skirts of sand. "There _what_?" Laguna asks.

"Shade your eyes," Kain orders, pulling his lance back over his shoulder. "Block as much of the light as you can."

_Sure, because I can see in the dark._ "Okay," he shrugs, leaning forward and pulling his hand in front of his eyes. Strangely enough, the darker he makes it, the more he starts to see what Kain's talking about. His perception itches towards a shape in the distance. It looks like some kind of structure…some kind of…

_Well, well. Looks like we have progress, people. _

There – _right there_ – on a sand island that's hovering maybe a click or two away, Laguna spies something that has the rough outline of a ruined castle. The edges of it are jagged, and against the darkness its silhouette is ghostly, childish scribble, but to Laguna's sand-blasted eyes, it looks pretty damn good. _Maybe not a __**shower**__, but still…_

"Not bad Kain," Laguna whistles. "Think that's what Yuna's GF was telling us to look for?"

"Mmm," Kain sounds, nodding. When he answers his voice is thoughtful and distant. "I noticed it a night ago. We misunderstood. This ruin," he gestures again. "is visible only by night. Seems there's more than one way to travel against the sun_._"

_Maybe. __**Maybe.**_ Laguna puts his good hand to his jaw. _But it still doesn't __**fit**__…_"Okay," he muses. "Not to nitpick, but the big guy didn't say _travel._ He said _walk._"

Kain cocks his head, pushes windswept tangles of ash blond hair from his face. He knots sand infested eyebrows over troubled eyes. "Point."

_Details, details. _ Laguna's not willing to be discouraged. "Well? Now that we've got a destination, any idea on how to actually _get_ there?"

Squatting, Kain steeples his fingers and rests his chin against them. His gaze latches onto the offending island; heavy, intent, analytical. "No," he answers eventually.

"No?"

"_No_."

"Great," Laguna fidgets with the splint on his left arm. _Okay, __**now**__ we can do discouraged. _"Glad we figured that out."

Kain chuckles. "You disgrace your name, Sir High Spirits."

Laguna doesn't answer, and for long moments, the two of them just stare out into the vacuum that stretches its nothing-black wings between where they are and where they need to be. Drumming his fingers over the flat chamber of his MP7, he shrugs. _Strange waters,_ _we're sailing in_. _Stranger seas. _And as he stands at the torn-paper border of the desert, he can't help but be reminded of those ancient maps he used to love, back when he was a kid obsessed with travel. The ones where the round world was flat, and unwary wanderers could fall right of the edge of it, into an open-jawed sky.

_Here, there be dragons._

Rolling his shoulder again, Laguna looks down at Kain, then back out at their mocking destination. Breathing through the pain in his neck, he pulls the machine gun from its holster, just to feel the weight of it in his hand. Yeah, he guesses that the first guys to sail straight off the face of the map had some heavy ass stones. They were probably lost. Or wandering. _If there's a difference._ But either way, barreling headlong into the horizon, due west into the dark, would have spit in the face of logic, been the absolute _stupidest_ thing they possibly could have done.

But then again, Laguna smirks, the ghost of an idea whispering through his mind, what's exploration without a little stupid...

_Of course. _He laughs, and the sticky cloth at his lips does nothing to muffle the sound. _Of fucking __**course.**_

Kain glares up at him. "So you've lost your wits entirely, then?"

"Kain," Laguna pulls the rag off his mouth just so the guy can see him gloat. "_Patience._"

In a single, fluid motion, Laguna rolls his MP7 into the crook of his right shoulder. _Walking __**against**__ the sun – _he shakes the cartridge into the chamber – _means walking __**into**__ the dark._ And as the round locks into place with that perfect click he loves so much, Laguna's smile blossoms into a full-fledged grin.

He pulls the sight to his eye. _It's good to get lost sometimes._ Squeezes the trigger.

The punishing recoil of submachine gun force pushes Laguna back a good foot and half, before he digs his boot into the sand and braces forward against it. Kickback punches through the muscles of his right arm and shoulder. Grease and smoke and gunpowder take the place of sand in his lungs, and _damn_, he hates that that was his last cartridge because he loves the _hell _out of firing this gun. _But oh, well. _Sometimes you have to gamble. Hopefully whoever they're trying to find in that castle has a couple of cases of Esthari issued MP7 ammo.

"Mother of – ", Kain spins wide out to his left and brings his forearm to his mouth in angry surprise. But if he's about to do anything to Laguna – tackle him or knock him out or just scream blue murder in his face – he stops the second he turns back out to the void.

Kain lowers his arm, and sly lips curve to a smile as he pivots all the way front to watch the sky explode.

Later, when he's asked to describe what he saw, Laguna will say that it was like a black and white wedding where the guests smashed all the chandeliers. That the sparks that flew off the edges of the gossamer crystal bridge were every color known to man. He'll also say that the gold and white globes of lights that that drifted out of the void and nosed around it seemed curious, almost alive. And the reason he'll say these things is because on some level, he'll always want to be a reporter, and he believes that words matter and he wants them to be pretty.

But the truth is, he's not thinking any of that, at all.

No, as Laguna reholsters his gun and looks through the drifting smoke out to the radiant, bizarre thing in front of him, he's only thinking two things. The first is that the whole rioting-light bridge to forever – _hey, that sounds cool – _in front of him looks pretty damn awesome. The second is that really, it's about time something went their way.

_Okay dragon king,_ Laguna sends the thought out to the sky, or wherever place in the universe it is dead dragons sleep, _I get it now._

"Nicely done," is all Kain says.

"Don't sweat it," Laguna replies.

In the silent space before them, globes of light drift and spin; electrons around a nucleus, or dandelion fluff on the wind.

* * *

><p>Aerith Gainsborough is content being dead. Well, maybe <em>content<em> is too strong a word, but she's made her peace with it, as much as she can. She's had to. There's no other way.

Her lips are curved in half a smile as she looks down at Tifa and Vaan's sleeping, collapsed-together forms. With his bright head nestled into the dark flow of Tifa's hair, they're all sharp light and soft shadow. She sighs, happy(-ish). They're filthy and little beat up and completely exhausted, but they're alive, and they're together, and that's a good thing.

Dropping to a knee in front of them, Aerith studies their faces. Squishy-soft and sweet in rest, nobody would guess that just an hour ago, Tifa washed her gorgeous face in – _oh_ – so many tears. All the tears that Aerith had wanted to save her. Or that Vaan was so furious that someone could have made her that upset that his wide eyes went narrow with anger, his lips tight with rage.

The sleep materia took care of all that though.

Gently, she reaches out to them. She'll want to take back what she has to do, but knows that she won't be able to.

'_Is there any other way?'_ She'd asked him, when all this began.

'_Ask yourself, my Keeper of Holy. The Door of Souls is their only path home. And it requires a key.'_

Aerith closes her eyes. She wants so much to touch them, but she can't. She wants so much to be a part of what they are, where they're going, but she can't. And so her agile Cetra hand flutters – unsure of its direction – in the halo of their shared body heat. For a moment, she neither presses down, nor pulls away.

It's a negotiation, this gesture. Something that reminds her of who she is now, who she always was, and who she must remain. Just one life, caught in the shifting gravity between worlds. Cetra and human; the Planet and the Lifestream; Dissidia and the Rift; dead and alive.

Finally, Aerith closes her fist, pulls it back. It doesn't tremble the way it used to, when she was sad. _It's true_, she knows. She can't go with them. And they can't come with her.

And so, Aerith stands, palms the wrinkles in her thin white shift until it's sort of smooth again. She indulges herself with one last, long look at them and then turns to the task at hand.

The sparkle-splattered limestone floor of the Limit Break isn't easy to navigate with her small, bare feet. It's craggy and slippery with gobs of liquid mana, and even though she's been here a hundred times since Cosmos yanked her consciousness from the Lifestream, she still doesn't quite have the hang of it. And now, she thinks as she steps over the sleeping forms of her friends, she needs to be extra quiet. She doesn't want to wake them. She can't afford to wake them. Not yet.

With all the grace and lightness she can summon, Aerith creeps over jagged quartz to the wall she has to climb. She absolutely _hates_ doing this, but she needs to talk to him. And since he can't leave the Phantom Village, she'll have to go to the Scrying Stone in the Second of the Thirteen White Chambers. So, swallowing the dread that mushrooms in her stomach, she takes her weakened fingers and wedges them into the small finger-shaped grooves in the stone. Once she has a grip, she strains, grimaces, and finally, pulls herself up.

This isn't an easy climb. It wouldn't be an easy climb for one of Cosmos' _living_ summoned, one of those she'd blessed with a body that wasn't half in the gateways and half in the Rift. But it's necessary. She has to talk to him, _now_. Because it's worse than they thought it was. And she still has _no idea_ where the Lufenian's dropped the others.

_I'm sorry,_ Aerith closes her eyes and sends the thought off to nowhere, to no one in particular. Tifa will cry, again, when she finds out. And even though it's the one thing she wanted to avoid, it's inevitable.

_Poor Tifa_, she thinks, shaking her head as the mana-slick toes of her left foot forage around for toe-holes. _You've shed enough tears. You and Cloud both. Enough to last __all__ your lifetimes._

It's funny, but even after all this time, Aerith still _wishes_…wishes for everything. That she could have spared all of them all of that pain. That she could have told them how sad the Planet sounded, when it sang to her that day. That they could know she wanted to live really, really _badly,_ but was okay with dying because she _had_ to. Because she had work to do.

She still has work to do.

Gnashing her teeth, she strains herself up another step. It's taken her a while, but she finally realizes that the price of victory isn't payable in wishes. Whether she has three or twenty-three or twenty-three million.

Zack always knew that. Aerith's only sad it took her getting dragged out of the Lifestream to come to the same conclusion.

It's slow going up this wall, and even though she knows the way her feet still slip with every other step. Several times, she has to catch herself, hold herself steady with just her arms and swing until her feet can curl into the ragged dent of a boulder, or over the slippery surface of ledge. _Yes,_ she thinks whenever she finds a rock sturdy enough to push herself off of. A few more inches behind her means a couple less in front.

And so that's how she travels. Inch by inch. Minute by minute.

Precariously, slowly, fitfully, _finally,_ Aerith reaches her destination: that tiny, one-person wide path that leads to the Second White Chamber behind the Limit Break's main mana-cascade. She collapses in a sweaty, soggy heap of braid and cloth, but she smiles as she looks down. From this high up, everything around her looks out of proportion. The surging mana-flows below are blue and green colored pencil on shiny grey paper, and Tifa and Vaan look like just one dot in a flourish of other twinkling dots.

_Good, _she thinks. _Lindzei won't see them this way. Not right away. _Picking herself up off the ground and turning left, she presses her back against the jagged wall and worms sideways until she slides behind the crashing mana. Drops of it splatter her face, and she crinkles her nose. Raw Rift-mana feels disgusting to her. It's too strong, and its song is not the song of the Lifestream. It's something different. It _screams._ Both literally as it thunders against the stone and in the soft spot in her mind where she can hear the Planet – where she can hear _all_ the Planets – cry.

There are so many voices. They give her _such_ a headache. But that's the way the Rift works. It's everything, all their worlds, together all at once.

Once Aerith smuggles herself all the way into the Second White Chamber, the sounds recede and the only thing she can hear is her own out-of-place as giggles as they bounce around the hollow room and boomerang back to her. Given where she is, it's kind of funny to think that once upon a time, she was scared of leaving _Midgar._

The altar where the hulking, translucent Scrying Stone sits looks a little like _that_ altar, the one in the Forgotten Capital. The first time she came here to pray with him, she could have sworn she felt the Masamune sheath itself inside her again, its chill steel sliding between her ribs – _oh_ – through her lungs – _please – _her stomach – _not – _her womb – _now,__** no**__ – _and out the other side.

It killed her precisely. Perfectly.

_It was so __**cold**__, __that sword. Even wet with warm blood, it was still so cold…_

She'd nearly broken down that first time. But then as she quivered, he undid her braid, let her hair fly free around her shoulders, kissed her forehead, her face, her neck. _'Don't think of it. This is the Second White Chamber. One of the Thirteen sources of __**all**__ white magic. You've no need to fear. You were __**born**__ of this place, in a way.'_

And so she's not afraid, anymore. It's hard to be afraid around him. _The First Mage. The founder of Mysidia. The first summoned ghost of the Rift_.She shivers. He died so horribly, only to keep _fighting._ And like her, he was dragged here from the rest he earned. Passing through Raqia, he never saw heaven.

But he did find _her._ They found each other.

Aerith fights the guilt that curls around her throat. He'll _never_ be Zack, _never. _But still. It's different with him, nameless, as if they're threads in a shared fabric, notes in a similar song.

And besides, it would be so lonely here, without him…

Beneath Aerith's feet, the water-smoothed limestone floor is soft. And as she flits up to the Scrying Stone pedestal itself, she thinks it almost feels like earth. She kneels before it, and as always, it sheds its silent light upon her.

"I'm here, Minwu," Aerith says, looking up. "I found them. Well, Tifa and Vaan, anyway."

The spirit that materializes before her is lean and strong and deceptively young-looking. Thick folds of luxuriant white silk obscure his head in a turban, his face in a veil, and the planes of his angular body in robes. All that's visible is the swath of taut olive skin at his navel, and his piercing, magic-bright eyes. They're beautiful. He's beautiful. She smiles. So does he.

'_Well met, my Aerith. Have you been able to sense the others?'_

Aerith shakes her head. 'Only when Lightning's cancer returned. And only for a second…"

The beautiful eyes flicker dark. _'The entire Rift felt that__**.**__ Her laboratory is destroyed?_

"Yes," Aerith answers, looking away. "And they opened the Gate of Song."

"_How much do they know?"_

"Only what I told them."

'_The Lufenian's a mad fool,"_ Minwu's shade shakes its head. _'A single act of mercy in twelve needless cycles of blood and he fails in this too__?' _

Aerith breathes in, and the mineral tang of the air is fresh and sweet on her tongue. "He couldn't have known they'd land there. He's couldn't have known they'd send it all crashing down – "

'_Willful blindness - __' _Minwu's shade shakes it head_ ' - is only another form of malice. This will make things very difficult.'_

"He _is_ trying to help," Aerith insists, but she doesn't quite believe herself as she speaks. "His will hides – "

'_His __**great**__ will?_' Minwu chides, gentle although his voice is cut with venom. _'His delusion is deep as the open sea._" An accented laugh ghosts through the cavern._ 'What does it do? Blanket the weakest of their magic? Force blood back into a dying dragoon? He hides nothing from eyes that know where to look. And if Shinryu is made aware, this game is lost before it begins.'_

"They would have died otherwise," Aerith's green eyes snap. "This at least gives them a _chance._"

'_A chance, yes,"_ the shade whispers. _'It is that.'_

Aerith bites her lower lip, still wanting things to be different than she knows they are. "We still have to help them."

'_And help them we will. By Raqia's grace and my word. But the time will come for goodbye, Aerith.'_

"I know." Aerith whispers, cutting him off almost accidentally. "I know. I just wish there were another way. Lightning...she doesn't deserve this."

Minwu's shade kneels so he's face to face with her, and spectral hands cup her face before he continues. '_No she does not__.__ But she herself sacrificed many, in the service of a greater good._" When he speaks again, it's as if the momentary pause has strained his voice - pulled it thin and tight. _"It is not so different a thing we do here, not so dear a price."_

"It's not right" she says, bowing her head. She feels the semi-solid fingers of a phantom thumb brush her cheekbone. "I just wish it didn't have to be this way."

'_It's a sacrifice. Surely you're prepared for that,'_ Minwu goes on, but his voice is so gentle, it nearly breaks her heart. She thinks she can feel the warmth of his breath on her ear, and it sends a shudder through her. _"A harder one, I think, than the ones we already made, you and I."_

Pursing her lips, Aerith can't find words that fit over her frustration. She and Minwu have been over this a thousand times already, and she knows the path Ellone showed them is the only way out. It doesn't stop her from despising it, though. "I know that," she mutters. "But still, I'm terrible at lying. I hate it, I - "

"Yeah." A voice from the corridor cuts her off, stops Aerith's words in her throat. She scrambles to her feet, a hand flying to her mouth. "No kidding."

"Vaan," she breathes.

"Also, no kidding," he almost spits at her. "And would you mind cutting the sacrificial crap? I'm a little sick of it."

_But the materia…_Frantic, Aerith's eyes dart frantically over Vaan's body before she notices the crystal ring that's hanging along with a rainbow tail and an amulet out of his left vest pocket. _How did I miss…_

It doesn't matter. If the sleep materia bought them any time, it's up now. Vaan's here, and his eyes as they accuse her are scalpel sharp and unforgiving.

Minwu's shade rises behind her, and his sonorous voice is respectful and sad. "_You've strong spirit lad, to have climbed this far without knowing the way._"

Vaan looks past him. "Hey, Aerith," he snarls, folding his arms. "I've got no idea who this guys is. And I know Teefs and everyone else in the entire universe thinks you're super-special and everything." He pauses, and his grey eyes burn. "But if you think you can lie to _me, _you've got another thing coming."

* * *

><p>"They're <em>pyreflies<em>" Yuna says in wonder, reaching out a hand to one of the strange globes of light that hover around Laguna as he walks around camp. She giggles. "I think they _like_ you."

Smirking, Laguna swats one off of the dusty shoulder pad of his jacket. It flits away skittishly, but leaves gold-circle bruises in the dark. He winks. "What can I say? I'm a likeable guy, right Light?"

Lightning shrugs, doesn't respond. The answer, of course, is _yes,_ he's a likeable guy. Everybody loves Laguna – _even __**her**__, and even though she doesn't want to_ – but Lightning doesn't feel like talking right now. Actually, she doesn't feel like much of anything. Except maybe getting the fuck out of here. And forgetting what just happened to her. So instead of answering, she simply turns away from Yuna and Laguna both and walks back to fire to finish rolling what remains of their supplies into her pack.

Behind her, Lightning can hear the sounds of their conspiracy rise into the night. She doesn't know if they're talking about Laguna's "Bridge to Forever" or whatever stupid thing he's named it, or if they're talking about her. He ears prick at the fragments of sentences that drift around with the sand. She thinks he hears things like '_how's she doing',_ and_ 'as well as can be expected', _and_ 'you __**sure**__ now?'_

White-knuckling the grip of Enkindler, Lightning grits her teeth. She really wishes they'd all just shut up and leave her alone.

She fucking hates their concern. _No, that's not the right word, _the less agitated side of her corrects_._ She doesn't hate it, at all actually. She's not some whiny teenager who can't accept that people care about her. She just wishes she didn't need it.

Wind rushes up from behind her, and more sand laughs into her hair and her threadbare clothes and her boots. But now she's so used to it, she barely notices anymore.

Sitting down in front of the fire, she rams Enkindler deep into the sand a foot or two beside her and closes her eyes. Shying away from the light, she lowers her head into her hands. Her brain is swollen with memories she doesn't want. The heat and weight of the power – _like nothing she's ever known_ – the blistering hate, the lust to destroy _**her**_**, **now. No matter what the cost.

'_Destroy'._ No.

'_Destroy her, Pulse L'cie'._ No. You don't _own _me.

'_Destroy her, or we will have you, we will eat you, you will die.' _No. Get out of my **fucking **head.

Yanking down on her hair until she feels follicles pull from her scalp, Lightning breathes in. Then she breathes out. The light of the pyre-whatever-flies illuminate squiggle-patterned capillaries behind her eyes. She ignores it. Cold wind blows through open v of her turtleneck, scratches her brand and raises goosebumps in the valley between her breasts. She ignores that too. Her mind has room for only one thought.

"You will not win," she vows in a whisper to the open sky. "Whoever you are, whatever you are. You will **not **win."

It's a losing battle, she thinks. She can't talk herself into it this time.

'_We've changed our fates before,_' a sweet, distant voice sounds her mind. _Right. How many times you wanna test that luck? _A mocking laugh escapes Lightning's lips, and the puff of her breath disturbs snarls of hair that hang over her open mouth. And when they fall back she tastes the grit of sand and the salt of blood and the sweet of filth all over again.

It's hardly possible, but the hands in her hair clench tighter. The grime of the last few days wedges itself under her fingers. And she sits. She just sits, thinking _nothing_ really. Nothing at all.

After a length of time she can't place, she hears the grating sound of steel scraping against sand, and a liquid baritone she's learned to recognize anywhere. "You shouldn't do this," Kain says. "To a fine weapon."

Lightning finally releases her grasp on her hair, and the rebound tension in her scalp shivers through her nerves. She turns to look at him, but can't muster the strength for a glare. "What?"

Kain walks past the fire and takes a seat beside her. Laying Enkindler out across his knees, he looks at her, and the blended light of the fire and the flies kaleidoscope through his strange violet eyes.

"You heard me," he replies, nodding to where the sand is already hissing into the void left by Enkindler. "You know better than that."

"So?" she says, holding out her palm until a pyrefly flutters into it. "I'll do what I want with my own weapon, thanks."

Kain looks away from her and lifts Enkindler in his left hand. He holds the edge to the light and squints in disapproval at the cratering on the edge. "I'd hardly trust you to make decisions right now."

A bright, distracting snap of anger clenches her jaw and closes her fist, and the unsuspecting pyrefly flees. "I hardly trust _you_ at all."

"So you've said," he says. "You've a talent for repetition. But nevertheless. Here we are. Now, have you a whetstone and oil or not?"

"Tch," Lightning shakes her head and leans down into her pack for a sharpening kit. A part of her is actually curious to see if the condescending medieval brain attached to Kain's fingers can manage PSICOM developed tech. "Here. Try your best. Don't shoot yourself in the face." _Or do, whatever._

"Hmpf," he exhales and his eyes warm slightly. He quarter-smiles at her, and while the words are sharp his expressive face flickers between amusement and what Lightning would think is sadness, if she didn't know better. "Such charming subtlety."

Taking the kit from her outstretched hand, Kain leans over the blade and unrolls it on the ground in front of him. He applies a thin sheen of oil to the whetstone, then angles the flat of Enkindler down over his knees and sets to work. Lighting wouldn't have thought there was enough light to work by, but the idle flightpath of the pyreflies leave glowing tracks in the night.

It's not perfect. But it'll do.

There's a kind of expert gentility to Kain's hands, Lightning thinks, as he runs the whetstone in uninterrupted, polishing strokes across the blade. Enkindler is GC classed light weaponry, and exposing the thin edge in all the winding curves is tricky. But Kain is patient, applying steady pressure at a perfect 30 degrees from the fuller until a new, uninjured edge is born. Uneven light coats him as he works, and Lightning watches as the changing angles of shadow cut and recut the hawkish planes of his face so one second Kain looks every inch a knight at his labor, and the next like a killer, preparing a tool.

Lightning shakes her throbbing head. Between emptiness and the cursed name of a viper goddess, her thoughts still swim in circles. But still, looking at him, she wonders if it's possible that such a striking face could really hide the soul of traitor, or whether that's just another trick of the light.

Eventually, wordlessly, Kain sets down the whetstone and picks up a square of sandpaper to detail and refine the edge. As he leans over, a bloodstained cloth is visible between the stiffened fabric of his doublet and the toothy scabs on his flesh. Squinting into the dark, Lightning thinks she can make out a stylized pattern crumpled in the ruined silk. _A red wing_, she guesses, arching a brow. _A white staff. A silver spear._

"What's that?" she asks, quietly enough so that the words won't carry.

"What's _what?_" he responds, swapping sandpaper for gear lubricant before turning to look at her. Their eyes snap together, and Lightning suddenly wonders what type of question she's really asked him.

Sitting up, she points with her chin but doesn't break the gaze that binds them. "That rag."

"This?" Kain chuckles, and the sound is rueful and distant and has nothing to do with the answer to her question. Setting Enkindler back across his knees he pulls it from his breast and brings the torn material under his nose. As he closes his eyes and inhales, the pyreflies flock a little higher, and darkness folds its wings around them like a secret. "Something I'd be better off done with, likely," he says eventually.

Lightning breathes an abbreviated breath. She's not interested in getting under his guard to a real answer tonight, although she can't help but ask herself what he could possibly be so fucking afraid of. _Coward._ "Then why carry it around with you?"

"To be frank, I've no idea," his whispers into the cloth. But then his eyes sail open again, and the look he offers her is clear and challenging and more honest by far than any words he's spoken. "Perhaps to keep track of myself when it becomes…unclear to me."

Lightning looks away, and although she wants to dismiss what he says, his words list over some of the cracks in her mind, hint at a direction for scattered thoughts. "You know, I never understand a word you say."

"You're lying, Lightning," he replies easily, standing up and bringing Enkindler with him. Wielding it with incongruous grace, he slices the air in a simple fencing cross, testing the sharpness against the resistance in the wind. Satisfied, he looks back at her. "I'd wager you know exactly what I mean."

Lightning doesn't answer. For long moments, the pyreflies light the space between them, just watching.

"Here," he says finally, walking back towards her. With a neat flick of his left wrist he tosses Enkinder up and catches it under the pommel with his kerchief wrapped hand before offering it to her by the grip. "Good blade," he smirks, waiting. "Acceptably wielded."

Snorting a quick laugh, she reaches out to take the weapon back. Under her fingers, the grip feels cool and clean and normal. "You're a prick, Kain," she says, rising to join him.

"That appears to be the consensus," he replies, but he doesn't let go of the blade right away. And for a few still seconds, their fingers linger in a hairsbreadth of one another, neither advancing nor flinching away.

Lightning can't decipher the look they're sharing. "You can let go now," she says.

Something plays at the corner of Kain's lips before he inclines his head and releases the blade. "Hmpf. As you wish, Lightning."

"Guys," it's Laguna's voice that startles Kain's gaze away from her, the pyreflies from their regular orbit. "_Heelllooo._"

Lightning casts a quick, analytical glance around the camp for sign of him before she sees his silhouette, together with Yuna's, splayed out against the thin horizon, ready to go.

"Hate to interrupt, but we've got a Bridge to Forever to cross, here." Smiling, he addresses Lightning directly, and his playful green eyes shine through the dark. "But I'll take the lead if you want, Light."

Snapping Enkindler into gun form, Lightning takes a long draught of clean desert air and lets swift, sturdy instinct take over for confusion, hurt and violence. And as she sprints out to join them, her weapon's secure in her hand, and there's the beginning of a smile on her face.

"Not a _chance_, Loire."

* * *

><p>Aerith doesn't want it to be this way. Looking down at Vaan's crumpled form, this is the very last way she wants it to be.<p>

She closes her eyes and balls her small fists and breathes in deep. Tears burn behind her eyes, but don't fall.

_Be a good person._ It was the only thing Elmyra _really_ asked of her. And through all her adventures back on the Planet, she thought she'd done a pretty good job of it. She'd never really been mad at anybody, never really _hated_ anybody. Not Zack when she thought he wasn't answering her letters. Not Cloud when he got so _angry_. Not even Tseng and the other Turks, for…well…everything. And in return, no one was mad at her, no one hated her. She was cheerful and happy, and it came back to her most of the time.

It was a fair trade, a balance, the kind the Lifestream loves. Give what you can. Don't be bitter. Walk through your life with small footprints.

_Be __**kind**__._

She doesn't know why she's not crying. She should be.

Vaan's asleep again. But this time, there's nothing gentle about his expression. Nothing relaxed. Collapsed against the stone floor, Aerith can still read the anger in his face, the betrayal. _I did that,_ and when Aerith breathes in the mineralized air of the Second White Chamber, she knows she can't undo it, and the balance in her life – _death? _– is upset now.

Before and after are separated by the smallest of margins. It's _after_ now, and she can't go back.

Miwu's spectral fingers close around Aerith's shoulders, and she leans her tearless cheek against them. '_I am sorry Aerith. But it __**is**__ necessary._'

"Why do you keep on saying that, Minwu? "

'_Our duty is to save those who are suffering._' the projection's hand leaves her shoulder to pet the top of her head. _'In return, sometimes we must suffer ourselves.'_

Aerith squirms from Minwu's grasp and gestures to Vaan's unconscious form. "How is _this_ easing anyone's suffering? How could this possibly be _kind?_"

'_Just because it doesn't appear to be kind Aerith,'_ the shade sighs, _'doesn't mean it's not.'_

Aerith doesn't answer, but when Minwu's astral form rests his cheek against her head she doesn't struggle. They stand there for a second and she thinks about him. About how, like hers, his death was just another battlefield. About how long he's been here, a slave to the Lufenian. And about how, despite all of that, he's still willing to give, well, everything.

To hide them from _**her. **_To get them home.

_Whatever it takes. _She's never thought like that before. But there's a first time for everything.

Closing her still burning eyes, Aerith bows her head. It _is_ necessary. They'd never choose to go home, if they knew what it meant. For Lightning or Laguna or Yuna. For _all _of them.

The shade draws his arm across her chest, and though she can't fully feel his embrace, she lets it seep into her.

'_You have to do it now, Aerith.'_

"I know."

'_And then you must find the others. We are running out of time.'_

"I know."

The stone under Aerith's knees is cold when she drops to her knees beside Vaan. It's funny, but when people think about white magic, and its purity, they very rarely understand what it can really do. After all, white magic is the magic of the body. The magic of blood and bone and sinew and nerve. The greatest of its practitioners knows there is no _Bio_ without _Esuna. _And that the fundamental root of _Death_ is _Cure. _It's like that in every White Chamber. It's like that in every world.

Aerith shakes her head. She will not need materia for this. She's in the Second White Chamber, after all and she can cast everything Minwu can cast here.

Fog will take away Vaan's memories of this, and he will not get them back. The only thing she regrets is that he's buried them deep in his mind already. And when she takes them, she'll take Reks as well.

_Whatever it takes._

Yes, the stone is cold beneath Aerith's knees. But she finds it doesn't bother her as much as it used to. She leans in close to his ear, whispers something she hopes he can hear, even now, in the depths of his sleep. "I'll do what needs to be done for you to survive, Vaan," she breathes. "I'm so sorry."

In the corners of her mind, she can almost hear his retort. _"No, you're __**not**__."_

And maybe it's true.

Sighing softly, Aerith Gainsborough closes her bright greens eyes and feels the familiar power flow from her palms. And then with steady lips and firm voice, she begins to chant the spell.

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER:<strong> As Tifa and Vaan try and make sense of past and future, Lindzei returns to raise the first of her Undying. Also, where exactly does a Bridge to Forever _go_ anyway? And will the toll for its crossing be to steep for the party to pay?


	5. CIV1: A Path Through The Empty Sky

Chapter IV: A Path Through the Empty Sky

**Thank You Distant Glory:** There is no superior beta reader to her, ever. People should pay her to do the work that she does.  
><strong>Feedback-givers: <strong>You are all wonderful. This piece is a bear, your feedback is very much appreciated, very much heard.  
><strong>Warning:<strong> Here's a really real warning. The first scene contains graphic violence. Certain sections of the next half of this chapter are similar. If you are sensitive to that, skip it. No lies.  
><strong>Structure:<strong> Had to split this chap in two. You'll see why.  
><strong>Solicitation: <strong>I never do this, but I don't want to squick out readers. If you don't mind going to my profile page and answering a poll question on where this story is pitched and clicking one of the two options, I'd be much obliged. Fanfic's cool because readers and writers can collaborate :)

* * *

><p><em>"Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider… 'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'<em>

_'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat. _

_'I don't much care where—' said Alice. _

_'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat. _

_'—so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation. _

_'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long enough." _

- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

* * *

><p>This is how it begins for Cid Raines, and also how it ends.<p>

His face is crushed. His wings are broken. Hands that do not pray are shorn from wrists that cannot bend. Useless, bloodless organs are ground to shimmering dust. He is fragments, he is ruin; crystal hunks that gleam amidst rust and other wreckage.

All that remains are his eyes. Scooped from his head, they quiver restless on the earth, watching. Each time, he sees himself die. By this, he knows he never can. He is alive, he is awake, he is aware.

He is Undying.  
><em>He wants to scream<em>.

_'__**No**__**,**__ my name is Cid – '_

He is _Her_ Undying.  
><em>A part of him will <strong>always<strong> be screaming._

_'I_ _**said**__ my name is __**Cid. Raines.'**_

There is no such thing as mercy. There is no such thing as freedom. And if he ever dreamed of a life unbound he was dreaming lying dreams. He wants Rygdea's bullet. It's the truest thing he's ever known.

Hate is the core of his being. Tempered and sharpened, it _gleams_. Sometimes, he imagines it as a knife with which he slits Her throat, and the sound of his own laughter is music as She bleeds. He's aware She has no throat, no blood, but this is what he wants, regardless.

She knows of this fantasy and is indifferent. To Her, it is beyond insignificant, a mayfly crushed in the heart of a neutron star.

"_**Son of mortals…" **_

Her legion voices are enough to scour the world from his soft, raw brain. His name is a rag on the wind. He grasps at it. He wants so much to keep it, although he never can. His grip is limp and useless and does not work, has never worked, will never work again.

_**Raines. **_

_My name is Cid – _

"_**Son of mortals, I bid you. Rise up now before me…"**_

The first thing she does is rejoin severed nerve. She does this so he may feel pain. It is not an act of cruelty. She is not cruel. But he is a tool that requires forging, and force must be applied.

He must see his reformation. He must belong to it. He must know what he is to become.

Lidless eyes cannot close, and so he watches. She demands it.

He is denied a mouth to scream with.

She does not let him move.

_It begins._

She returns his hands, fleshy nubs that sprout from crystal palms. In his abdomen fat, soft guts wiggle and squirm. Red blood pulses through worming maggot veins. His limbs crawl back to their sockets, suck themselves back in. Organs balloon. Earholes blossom. A broken heart coalesces to wholeness.

There is no place for the vomit to go, so it slides, acidic and soft, bile-tasting, right back down his throat. He chokes. He cannot move. She will not let him.

The pain is pure and perfect. She will drive him to his knees with it. With it, she shall raise him to highness; with it, She shall make him whole.

"_**I will speak unto to you."**_

To aid in his flight, she fashions wings that are heavy with glory and will not melt in the face of the sun. They will carry him, but he does not want it. He knows he once had other ways to fly.

_A sturdy deck…a heavy wheel….the wind and how she moved in her moods…sensitive like a woman beneath his loins or wary like a hawk on the wing… _

If once his name was a rag on the wind, now it's cinders in an empty sky.

"_**I send you unto the unruly children of my sister.  
>They are thieves in my father's house."<strong>_

The flesh of men is grafted over the scaffold she has formed. It is white, this skin, and has no scars. Muscles unfurl beneath its taut canvas and he knows they leash power beyond the dreams of men. Sable locks of hair wiggle from his scalp and are the only darkness on an immaculate canvas.

While Lindzei keeps no mirrors, he knows he is untainted and beautiful and pure. He despises it. It is everything he is not.

"_**Stainless One, rebel not against me.**__**"**_

For all his revulsion, there is no question. In Her presence, no questions can exist. She is domination, and his hate is an indulgence She permits because it costs nothing. He will serve when beckoned. Naked, he will come unto his mistress' throne. He will present a neck to be stepped on, a back to score to ribbon, wrists to bind in chains.

She fills him with everything he is. His hate is hers; his life is hers; his organs, blood and body are hers. He is owned.

Without her, he is nothing.

_My __name__…_

"_**Open your mouth. Drink of my wine.'**_

He drops his jaw. There's no hole for the mouth she denied him, so the skin just stretches over the place it should be. His disobedience is blasphemy, and so, despite himself, he strains against it. _Open. __**Open**__._ Eventually, She permits the flesh to split, and he is grateful. He now has lips with which to speak Her words. A tongue with which to taste them. His jaw is slack, and raw ether is poured down his throat. He closes his eyes. When he opens them, the shape of all magic is known to him.

Like this, he can conduct armies of thousands. But still his power is to hers as morning dew is to the storm.

_My…_

"_**Be not afraid Stainless One, though assaulted you shall be.  
><strong>__**By my words, I have blessed you."**_

A sword appears at his hip, and he can tell by its weight it will be sharp and swift and kill well. Armor forms over his flesh, and he knows by its hardness it will shield him, by its brilliance it will blind.

She asks him to avenge and he will do so. To Her shall be the glory. His soul shall be the price.

_I…_

"_**What is your name?"**_

He is allowed to stand. He rises before her.

This is the way it always begins. This is the way it always ends.

He spreads his wings, and they are magnificent.

Looking down at his hands, he pauses and speaks the truth.

"I have no name."

"_**She strikes a fool's bargain. Her lot is cast among insects."**_

He is allowed to know.

Images crash through his mind. A woman sits in a graveyard of flowers, seeking father and brother in a labyrinth of worlds. A dragon screams in rage. A mad husband's ghost weeps over a bloodstained desk. A mad wife's shade presides over a void. The mad child of their union murders all that he sees.

And still crystal. Always, always crystal.

He sees a familiar thing. His opposite number – Her Sister's chosen – is one he knows. As before, she has eyes of death and destruction. Once blue, they glow urine vermillion, the color of a falling sky.

She is the herald of Their Father's awakening. And His coming is the end of all things.

"_**Go."**_

He is the Archangel of Her Undying. He is the prophesied harbinger of an ancient scroll. He foretells lamentations and mourning, but he foretells them with grace and mercy and strength.

He who was once Cid Raines flaps his wings and ascends, and as he circles above the shattered spoils of Her lost empire, he howls.

* * *

><p><em>Don't force it.<em>

It's funny, but of all the memories that Lightning's finally been able to claw out of her brain, one of the clearest is the voice of her old CO – _Amo-something_ or other, she thinks his name was – repeating that at her. Especially with the recruits, he'd shake his head and use that deep, level voice of his – the one that used to drive her half nuts, actually – and just feed her the same lines.

_Don't push 'em further then they can go. Don't push __you__ farther than you can go. If everyone's breakin' down, Farron, you're probably doing something wrong._

Kneeling in the grainy, night-cold sand in front of Yuna, Lightning snorts a short laugh through her nostrils. _Sorry Sir,_ the thought is a salute, _but __**nothing **__gets done if you don't force it._

Not getting out of this damn desert. Not killing this thing that's eating her left breast and her sanity right along with it. Not cutting a stupid, inefficient, trip-inducing kimono off an obstinate Summoner.

_What the __**fuck**_, she thinks, grabbing a fistful of Yuna's raw silk skirt and yanking it taut, _do these places have against __**pants**__?_

The pyreflies that roll in dreamy orbit on the desert wind don't have anything to say on the matter. They simply rub their fat, magical cheeks against Yuna's face, drifty and inquisitive and bright.

"_Light_," she protests, stepping back and straining the fabric beneath Lightning's fingers. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

"_Yuna_," Lightning snaps. "We've been through this. It's been _days_, and you're tripping every five seconds."

"I know, but…" Yuna starts, and Lightning watches her normally serene expression contract. "Maybe there's– "

Lightning interrupts her with a small noise of disgust. She has a sister – _Serah,_ she remembers, and the name is sweet and bitter and everything between – that's a little like Yuna. Kind and quiet and stubborn as hell. _Wasn't afraid of her, either__. __Much._ "It'll be _fine_," she spits. "Stop being so stubborn."

"I'm _not _being stubborn," Yuna reasons, though her wild eyes are a dead giveaway. "I just think it's not necessary right now. We're almost _out_of the desert."

Lightning pauses for a moment and looks up at her, arching a brow. Yuna's small features are smeared with yellow sand and silver gunpowder; with sweat and blood and the squalid what-the-fuck grime of travel. Setting her elbow on her knee, Lightning sighs, considers. Yuna's been the absolute pillar of this miserable hell-trek they're on. She tends their wounds, lifts their spirits, makes her – her, of all people – feel like she's not now and never could be a monster, even though they both felt what happened to her, and they both know what it means. They'd be every kind of lost without her. And Lightning can tell by her crinkled forehead and frowning lips that all she wants in return is to keep her ridiculous, impractical kimono.

Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Lightning weighs the bargain. On one hand, a not-so-naked Yuna who can't walk through sand – _or any other rough terrain, frankly_ – for shit because she's too busy tripping on herself. On the other, a more-naked Yuna who's actually mobile. She cocks her head, blinks, decides.

_Sorry, Yuna, you lose. _

"Sorry, Yuna," she says as determination coils her muscles and raises her knife. "No dice. You've gotta be able to _move_."

"Look," Yuna interrupts, not giving up the fight. "I really think," she breathes, eyes widening as the knife descends. "_We could just __**tuck it in**__…__Light..._"

Expertly ignoring Yuna's protests, Lightning grits her teeth and prepares for the kill. She readies herself for the sound of silk ripping and for Yuna's sighs of acceptance. A part of her almost feels bad – like she's some kind of kimono grim-reaper – and another apology is half-formed in her mouth when a singing, fleshy smack knocks the knife right out of her hand.

It takes Lightning several seconds to process that yes, Yuna just slapped her. _Hard._

She rubs her hand, knots her brow. _More like Serah than I thought._

Lacking words, Lightning only picks up her knife and glares. Yuna's agile hand flies to her face to shield that small, jumpy grin that's tugging at her mouth, but she meets Lightning's gaze, beat for beat.

Around them, everything is silent. Even the wind only whispers, just waiting.

"…Sorry, Light," Yuna says eventually, bending. Her warm voice wears a thin scarf of contrition but Lightning knows it's a front. "It's just," she gestures with her chin to where Kain and Laguna are putting on a show of studious, self-preserving disinterest, "Sir Laguna and Sir Kain, they – "

"Have sure as _hell_seen legs before." More than a little fed up, Lightning springs from her haunches, raises her knife and slices it home in a single, decisive motion. "And you," – she starts sawing – "_need_," – she tugs down on the fabric, tearing it – "_to __**move**_," – the sound shears against Yuna's soft gasp – "_quickly_."

As punctuation for her last word, Lightning pulls her blade through the remaining cloth before giving it a final yank. Membranous threads snap, and the fabric rustles to the sand in a heap.

"There," Lightning says, satisfied. Rising to her feet, a ghost of a smile plays on her lips until she gets a good look at what she's done.

_Oh __**crap**_, she thinks, and she can almost_feel_ Serah pinching her, _it __i__**s**__ a bit short._

Yuna says nothing. She just looks down.

"Come on, Yuna." Ignoring the tiny spider-bites of guilt nipping at her, Lightning flips her survival knife closed and drops it in her pouch. "It's not _that_ bad."

When Yuna finally replies, her voice is steady and even, her face already returned to that even, invincible, _unnatural _calm. "No," she says. "It isn't. Not as bad as I thought, but still…" She raises her gaze to Lightning's. "You could have left it a _little _longer, don't you think, Light?"

Lightning rolls her eyes and laughs a short laugh. "Fine," she concedes. "Don't struggle next time and I'll let you choose the length."

"Now don't go doing something hasty like _that_," Laguna's voice sails in from somewhere behind them. It rests, like it usually does, somewhere on Lightning's last nerve. She turns to look at him. He winks. She cringes. "I _like _the length."

Yuna smiles a small smile and looks down before answering. "Thank you, Sir Laguna."

"No, thank _you_, kiddo," he says, grinning wolfishly, and putting his good hand on her bare shoulder. "For being so pretty. That boyfriend of yours is one lucky guy. What's his name again? Tie-dye or something?"

"_Laguna_," Lightning interrupts before Yuna can splutter an embarrassed reply. "Can you _ever _just shut up?"

"Apologies, milady." Walking towards them, Kain addresses Yuna directly. His hair is twisted in a messy knot, his lips in a wry smirk. "Some men slay fiends. Laguna, chivalry."

"Hey, there," Laguna protests. "Not everyone can have your charming glower, Highwind. Now," he pauses to slide his hand between Yuna's shoulder blades and give her a gentle push forward, "I like new clothes as much as the next guy, Light but I thought tonight's agenda was, you know, leaving. Not tailoring."

Stepping to the side, Lightning unholsters Enkindler and gestures forward. "Last I checked, you were running point Loire," she invites. "That means _front_, FYI."

"Oh, Light," Laguna responds, looking back over his shoulder as jogs a few steps out. "Our fearless pain in the – _ah_ – " Lightning spikes him with a glare before he stops himself. "_Leader. _Fearless leader."

Giggling softly and traitorously, Yuna puts a small, comforting hand on Lightning's sword arm before turning after him. Shaking her head, Lightning waits until she's sure they can't see her, and then smiles a small, clandestine smile and follows after.

Lightning keeps a slow, deliberate pace behind her companions, watching as their edgeless silhouettes fade in and out of the light-black dark. Right beside Yuna, Laguna's gesturing and laughing, using his good arm to trace wild shapes over their heads, like he's drawing a map through the naked sky. He's probably making up half of what he's saying, and Lightning's sure if she were listening it'd annoy her half to hell, but still. If she's honest with herself, she really doesn't know what she'd do without him. His optimism. His bulletproof smile. That feather-light leadership of his that somehow keeps them all facing in more or less the right direction. He's good to have around. They all are. Without them…

_You'll be ours_, the thinks she hears thing on her breast rasp in reply. _We'll kill them and you'll be ours and we'll laugh-__**laugh**__-__laugh…_

_Shut __**up**_**.** Lightning coughs and puts that hand that's holding Enkindler to her face as the night wind throws fistfuls of sand in her face. "Shut up," she whispers, closing her eyes and crushing the urge to put her hands over her ears. "_Shut up_."

The startling press of Kain's hand at her lower back answers her before his voice does. "I haven't said anything," he says. Smirking, he leans in close enough that the next time he speaks his breath catches in the shell of her ear. "Or can I assume you've taken to talking to yourself?"

"Preemptive strike, Highwind," she mutters. She can't tell what surprises her more: that he managed to sneak up on her, or that he's gambling his spear-hand by running it over the dip of her spine. Squirming from his touch, she glares at him. "You wanna keep that hand?"

"I'd like to see you try and take it from me." He punctuates the retort with a short breath he exhales through his nose. "You're vexed."

"It's nothing," she lies, annoyed that the warmth of his skin still lingers in the small of her back. "Yuna gave me more trouble than I thought."

One side of Kain's thin, chapped lips turns up in a rueful twist. "I'd wagered Laguna that she'd never permit it. Your stubbornness cost me fifty gil."

_Good._ Shaking her head, Lightning runs a hand through the ratty mess of her hair. "You realize you're at least as much an idiot as he is."

"You credit me then, Lightning, since he's hardly that," Kain replies, adjusting Gungir on his shoulder. "But besides parting me from my money, you did well to convince her. It's a ridiculous frock."

"Says the guy with the twenty-four hour dead-dragon helmet?" she needles. "The _purple_ dead-dragon helmet?"

"It's tradition – "

"_Joke_, Kain." Exasperated with his idiot pride, she turns to face him, expecting to see his face molded into that disaffected sneer he loves so much. But it isn't. His expression is wry – almost _kind_ – and Lightning wonders again what he lets that armor swallow.

"An attempt, at any rate," he concedes. With a quiet, close-lipped smile, he reaches over to tug lightly on a knotted string of rose hair. "You might consider a helm yourself, you know. It would obscure…_ah…this_."

"Right," she snaps, pulling away. "You know, I liked you better when you kept your mouth shut."

"I'm touched, Lightning." Kain flattens his hand over his heart and inclines his head. "I wasn't aware you ever liked me."

"Don't test your luck, Kain."

Kain chuckles and doesn't answer, but the look he sends her is light and thoughtful. And for a second, it's as if he'd never raised his spear to her, and she'd never wished him harm.

She's the first to look away, and he doesn't press further than he's asked to go.

The four of them travel in silence for some time after that, Laguna at point and Lightning at rear. Around them, the windy desert breathes, and shadowed sand chases itself in oblong figure-eights. Pyreflies swing in low around their heads like lanterns in a plump summer breeze, and Lightning finds that they distract her from her dread. It's nice to look at something beautiful for a change, actually. It makes the trudge through ankle-deep shifting sands a little easier, the burn on her breast and in her brain a little less difficult to bear.

As the miles wear on, Lightning's steps find an almost comforting rhythm. _Step left__._ The blister on her big toe oozes and grates. _Step right_. Abraded ankle skin chafes against softened leather. Steady breathing, in and out. She's more than willing to keep going, and as the blurry horizon takes on the shattered angles of the desert's end, she's almost disappointed. That is, until she notices that Laguna's no longer idly gesturing to imaginary stars, he's standing with Kain and pointing straight out into empty space. Until she realizes that despite the distance they've walked – following Kain's carefully laid path markers the entire way – they're actually…nowhere.

At which point, she's not disappointed at all. She's seriously, righteously, I-will-blow-your-head-off _pissed off__._

The _hell._

Laguna's the one who voices what all of them are feeling.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he swears. "Seriously. You have _got_ to be _fucking _kidding me."

Nobody answers. They just gather at the crease of the desert and search for absent shapes on a mocking horizon.

"I don't understand," Laguna mutters after a while. Shaking his head, he looks over at Kain. "Did I just completely lose it Highwind? It was _right here_."

Kain crosses his arms and squints into the darkness before answering. "Aye," he says. "And the ruins, too." His voice deepens and darkens. "What kind of trick – "

"Not tricks, Sir Kain." It's Yuna who interrupts him, and as everyone's gaze wheels towards her, Lightning can't help but notice the look on her face: pyre-fly bright, calm and unbroken, a mirror pool in a holy place.

In the unfettered wind, the too-short skirt wilds about Yuna's hips, tattered and silly, and suddenly Lightning can't remember why it seemed so important for her to cut it.

Kain's brow furrows. "Beg pardon, milady?"

"I…" she starts, looking briefly down before looking up again. "There's someone here who wants to speak with me. Someone…I didn't think I'd ever see again. She'll have answers, I think."

"What're you talking about Yuna?" Laguna asks, hooking his right thumb into a ragged belt loop. "Not that I don't love a good party, but I don't see many other pretty ladies around here to chat with."

A small smile whispers over Yuna's face. "But I have to invite them first, Sir Laguna," she says.

Lightning shivers. The words pour cold dread down her spine. "_What_ – " she starts.

Yuna's warm, wan smile closes Lightning's lips. "You have to stay calm during this, Light," she says. "I want you to promise me that you'll please just…stay calm."

"What do you mean?"

"I can feel her here," she explains. "I think she's been part of it all along. Part of what I felt in the desert before…before the manikins came."

Lightning looks away. Understanding pricks lightly over her mind, but she swats it away. She doesn't want to know. Her brand hurts – it hurts so damn _much_ – and she shifts her weight before she rubs the hardened skin in soothing circles, trying to keep the pain in check.

"She's going to feel very familiar, Light." Yuna speaks through Lightning's silence, stepping towards her and laying a soft hand over the one she's using to calm her brand. "But she isn't what did this to you. So please, promise me."

Yuna's eyes bore into her, green-blue and slow-burning. And Lightning's suddenly aware that maybe there's nothing unnatural at all about Yuna's serenity. It's honed like a blade. And when called upon, she uses it like one.

"_Promise_," she repeats.

Lightning's tongue is dry and thickish in her mouth. And this time when Kain comes up behind her to lay a stubborn hand on her back, she doesn't dance away. "Fine," she finally says, only half understanding what she's agreeing to.

"Thank you, Light," Yuna says simply, squeezing her hand before walking away.

Since Yuna's not weighed down by heavy fabric, she steps lightly to a patch of desert behind the sandfall. As if in prayer, she drops to her bare knees; as if in dance, she swirls her hands over her head and bows at the waist. Pyreflies crowd around her, and are glowing blooms creeping over thin, breakable arms. Their light is dim, but it reveals everything Lightning needs to see. Blue-black-yellow bruises; spindled, popped-up veins; a dull sheen of magic that sweats through her pores.

She didn't think Yuna had any mana – any strength of any kind – left. She was wrong.

When the Summoner finally rises from her bow, her eyes are steady and her voice is strong. She utters only two words, but they're enough to drain the air from Lightning's lungs and the blood from her face.

"Come, Anima," she says.

* * *

><p>It's official: Vaan really hates this place. Even though it's new, and it's filled with pretty cool stuff, and he feels like he could brag about it to Pen once he gets back home, he hates it. It's too quiet. And because there so much mana here, nothing other than those weirdo trees can grow. And it's underground. And, you know, in the <em>Rift.<em> So yeah. He hates this place and doesn't mind saying it.

…And he thinks he hates that Aerith chick too, although he can't quite put his finger on why.

"Teefs," Vaan starts, idling a soft, shiny stone in his hands. He throws it out over the mana-flow expecting it to skip, but it just sinks. _Figures._ "You really think we should've just let Aerith go off alone to find the others? I mean, they're _our_ friends."

Curled up in the hunkering shadow of a rock that Vaan thinks looks a lot like a mini Sky-Fortress, Tifa fiddles with the frayed edge of one of her suspenders. "They're her friends too, Vaan."

"Really?" Vaan asks, pulling off his boot and emptying it of grit. "I'm not even sure she met half the others. She didn't do too much in Dissidia. Just hung out in gateways, cast that one spell she's got."

"Vaan," Tifa chides, stretching. The fabric over her chest pulls tight and Vaan can't help but think that even beat up and exhausted and dirty, she's still really (really) hot. "Aerith's my friend. I trust her."

"Don't take this the wrong way," Vaan says, using the heel of his hunting knife to hammer a loose nail in the sole of his boot back into place. "But you trust _everybody_. You even trusted _Kain _after he spent three weeks knocking our friends into the next cycle."

Tifa knots her brow. "You trust Kain, too."

Vaan examines his boot and makes a face when he sees another loose nail, annoyed that the stupid Archadian soldier he lifted them from didn't take better care of his stuff. Loser. "Now, sure. _Maybe_," he replies eventually. "But if I'd met up with him when he was playing whack-a-mole with our friends, I'd probably've thought twice about hanging out with him twenty-four-seven."

Tifa blinks. "Whack-a-what?"

"Mole," Vaan explains, wedging the one-size-too-small boot back on his foot. He needs new socks, but he'll deal with that later. "They're a bit like rats, except –"

"Vaan," she snaps. "What's with you and _rats_?"

"You know, Teefs," Vaan says, pulling off his other boot. "You're too squeamish and too trusting."

"What's wrong with believing in a friend?" Tifa asks, absently tracing a fallen silver leaf with a slender finger. It's a small, delicate thing, and mana-light quivers over its tiny veins like raindrops racing down a windshield. Vaan can't tell if it's dead or alive.

"Nothing," Vaan says, shrugging. It's kind of an obvious question, really, but he answers it anyway. "Except that some of _my_ friends lie like crazy."

Tifa rolls the leaf around in her fingers and looks out over the mana-flow with wide, sad eyes. Usually they have this pretty ruby color to them, but in this weird light, they're hyper-crimson in a way that makes Vaan a bit uncomfortable. "You don't understand," she says after a while. "Aerith's different."

"Why?" Vaan eyes an emerald-ring-looking-thing that's fallen out of his boot before realizing it's just worthless copper. Disappointed, he throws it away and watches as it disintegrates into greenish dust before it even hits the ground.

"_Because_," Tifa responds. She jackknifes her knees to her chest and hugs them before pinning him with that off-looking gaze. "She saved all of us. The whole Planet."

"Okay." Vaan tugs the second boot back on and wiggles his toes inside. Still too small, but at least he's got _some _room in there now. "But we're not on the Planet anymore, in case you hadn't noticed. And you said yourself you haven't seen her for _so long_…"

"You can trust her, Vaan." Tifa's got that tone in her voice that girls – well, all girls other than Lightning – use to tell you the conversation's over without actually telling you to shut up. "She's my friend. And she'll find the others, you'll see."

Vaan doesn't say anything. He just puts his hands behind his head, leans back against the rock and thinks about what Tifa just said. He's always confused at why people seem to think that repeating the same thing over and over is going to convince him of anything. If he didn't believe it the first time, he probably isn't going to believe it the fifth. Besides, everybody's someone's friend. And there's something about Aerith that's just annoying…like she's trying too hard. Ordinarily he'd bring that up, but this is Tifa, and he doesn't want to get under her skin unless he has to. She's been through enough. Plus that way she has, of fighting for everyone, even if she doesn't want to, reminds him of…_reminds_ him of…well…

Hm. Nothing. But he thought it did, for a second.

A little bored with just sitting there, Vaan rolls to his feet and walks to the edge of the mana-flow before crouching and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Narrowing his eyes, he looks around the cavern, awed at the way it seems like the mouth of some giant beast. It doesn't make it suck less, but he really can't get over the sheer size of this place. It's definitely big enough to fly in, with the right pilot. He's probably not good enough, but Balthier could do it, if he were here. Vaan smiles, remembering how bowled over he'd been by the guy the day they met. Even if, for a sky pirate, he sure didn't know how to lock up his valuables.

_Leading men don't get their stuff nicked, Bathier_. He smirks, palming the outside pockets of his vest in search of those rings he'd snagged off of him. Pen likes the crystal one the best, because if she wears it while she's dancing, it catches the light in a way that she likes. If she were here now, he'd let her keep it...

That is, if he could find it.

"Hey Teefs," he asks, popping to his feet and clapping his hands against his pants. _Pen'll be really disappointed if I've lost it_. "You seen my crystal ring?"

Tifa's set her cheek against her knees but her head perks up at his question. "No," she says, pulling at the frayed edge of her shoelace. "Do you think you dropped it somewhere? Or maybe it fell out of your pocket when the cavern collapsed?"

"Maybe…" Vaan pulls his vest open and rummages through the inside pockets. Finding nothing, he folds his arms across his chest. _But I'm __sure __I had it a few hours ago_…

"I'm sorry, Vaan. You want me to help you look for it?" Tifa asks in reply, rolling off the ground and joining him at the mana-flow. She's been sitting so long that her long legs sparkle with bits of quartz that have come off the limestone, and Vaan does his best to look everywhere but straight at them. It's not easy.

"Nah." Vaan inhales deeply and leans back against one of the giant silver trees. Thinking about Pen's made him nervous about the others. He knows _she's_ safe because Cosmos did him a solid and didn't drag her into this mess. But he's getting anxious about Light and those guys. And sitting here doing nothing isn't making him feel any better about it.

"Are you _sure _we shouldn't just look around the Limit Break for them?" Vaan asks after a while. "I mean, there's a _chance_ they're here, too…"

Tifa chews on her lower lip before answering. "Couldn't hurt. Although," she says, stepping forward and squinting her eyes off into the distance. "Is that Aerith there? Already?"

Pushing himself off the trunk of the tree, Vaan comes up beside Tifa and tries to follow her gaze. He sees what she's talking about, but Aerith took off on that Menhoo-ha-whatever-thing of hers, and the spots that grow in the distance are way too small for that. "I don't think so." He leans forward, and is shocked at how quickly the shapes seem to be closing in on them. And one of them looks like it has wings like something out of a crazy book, or...like a certain messed-up haunted statue they saw in a collapsing cavern…

_This can't be happening_. He stares in slack-jawed terror at the V-shaped formation of creatures that's knifing through the air straight at them. _Stupid Aerith said we'd be __**safe **__here._

"Uh, Teefs – "

"_No_," Tifa whispers. Her face is dead-person white. "It can't be…"

"_Ah_, I dunno about that." Vaan knows Tifa's thinking what he's thinking, but there's really no time to just stand here staring. Because if that _is_ reincarnated statue guy, he isn't by himself. The shapes are still too far away for him to make out, but he can tell that the winged things that follow behind him are greyish, and there's something in their chests that glows red like newly spilled blood.

He grabs her hand, pulls; tries really, really hard to get her to move.

But does she? No. _Of course not._ Because she's still staring in shock at some used-to-be-dead guy she feels sorry for. Because she's brilliant and kind and everything to everyone, and one of these days he's sure it's going to get her killed.

_Well, not today. Not if I've got something to say about it. _

"Teefs," he spit-whispers, pulling her harder and wishing for the very first time that she wore more clothes so he could drag her by her belt or something. "I'd really like to not die, 'kay?"

"It looks like…I mean…_those wings_…is that Cid?" she asks, and Vaan can hear the sadness in her soft voice, and it makes him feel bad. Obviously, not bad enough to get killed because they're standing here like retarded flans, but still _bad._

"So what?" Vaan's getting agitated now. He can make out scabby grey skin on the flying monsters, and they look _a lot_ more like zombies than he wants to admit. And Vaan really, really hates zombies.

"It can't be…he _died_…he _wanted_to…"

"Who _cares?__"_ Vaan struggles to keep his voice at a whisper. He yanks at her again, this time harder and she _still_ doesn't move. _How strong __is__ she?_ "Whoever or whatever it is, it sure looks like it wants to kill us."

Vaan doesn't know if it's the last tug he gives her, or something in his voice or – _more likely_ – the way that the wedge of flying…_things_knifes through air towards them, but all of a sudden, Tifa's Tifa again. "You're right," she says, eyes darting around the cavern for a place to hide. There aren't all that many. Or any at all. "But where – "

"Over there." Vaan grabs her hand and starts racing towards the crushing, glowing momentum of the cascade. He has no idea why he thinks there are chambers behind the mana-fall, but he's not about to question it. "I think there might be a way to hide behind that thing…"

Tifa smiles that sixty megawatt smile of hers that makes even being chased by zombies not so bad.

"One way to find out!" she says.

* * *

><p>What appears before Yuna as she speaks the words of Summoning is nothing like the Anima she remembers. The Aeon she knew was a creature of terrible magnificence: an impossible sculpture of raw sinew and ten-ton chains, of knotted flesh and bone-as-marble. She destroyed with the mere memory of her pain. Against Luca's bright blue sky, her visible eye was cold and without mercy, but in it Yuna saw regret so awesome, so absolute, nothing could stand before it unmoved. Once seen, it could never be unseen.<p>

It haunts Yuna to this day.

She never could tell Tidus – so sun-bright, she could never have let this cloud pass over him – but that moment…it was…_beautiful._ One of the most beautiful moments Yuna has ever known.

And so, when she looks on the creature that claws its way forth from the desert floor, she's filled with shock and pity. While she can feel the pain – the presence – as breathtaking as it ever was, Anima's form is so reduced Yuna barely recognizes her. Woman-shaped and sized, she's not quite Fayth, not quite Aeon. While face and fang and visible eye are the same, garlanded in soiled bandages, her skin doesn't hang where it should. It's loose and grey and scents of mold. Filaments of the hair she'd had as a woman extrude from her skull and blow through the bloodied, open cage of her ribs, willow branches in a breeze.

If she could, she'd reach out her hand in comfort. If she could, she'd share her pain.

But of course, there's no time for any of that to matter right now. There's no time for _anything at all_. Because behind her, Yuna hears the sound of Enkindler coming unsheathed. Behind her, there is a sharply drawn breath, a whisper of sand underfoot, and other unmistakable evidence that Lightning Farron is breaking her promise.

It was unfair of her, to force Light into a lie. But she'd thought it might help. It didn't.

"_You_." Lightning's voice is liquid malice. "_**You **_did this to me. _**You **_put this thing on me."

Yuna can't see behind her, but she knows what's happening even before she turns and springs to her feet. And as she throws herself between Anima and Enkindler's murdering edge, Yuna abandons any comfort she'd taken in unfairly extracted promises, and trusts only in the strength of Lightning's heart. In the belief that no matter what, she will not harm a friend.

There's a flutter of movement, of Kain trying and failing to catch her around the waist. But there's no time to focus on that. Laguna screams, "_Light, __**no**__!"_

Yuna holds her ground as a bright-black sword cleaves the dark and descends towards her. The universe narrows to its glinting point, its inevitable momentum. There is no denying its power, its angle or its arc. The only question is where it stops: before it slices a ten-inch gash across her face, or after.

It's clear in Yuna's mind that if she moves now, if she flinches or blinks or looks away, it's over. So she doesn't. She keeps her eyes wide and focused and does not move. Not when she feels the razored steel stop and tremble an atom's width from her skin. And not when the quivering blade bites uneven chunks of skin from her nose bridge. In the end, it just hovers in killing poise, a sharpened shadow falling from the right side of her mouth to her blue left eye.

The drops of blood that drip from Yuna's face are soft and fat and intermittent. As they fall they're consumed, one by one, by the ravenous sand.

"Out of the way, Yuna." Lightning's voice is shaking, pitchy and breathless with hate. Her chest is heaving and her eyes are crazed, her pupils contracted to needled points.

"No." Yuna holds completely still. "I won't let you harm her, Light. It isn't what you think."

"_It __**is…**_" Lightning hasn't relaxed her grip on Enkinlder. She holds it like it is the only real thing in the world. "I can _feel _it. Now get out of the _way_ – "

"No." The blood tears down Yuna's face and stains her lips. It coats her tongue as she breathes and speaks, but she can't let it distract her. No matter what, she can't lose contact with Lightning's eyes. She knows what will happen if she does. "I know what you're feeling, but I _promise_, this isn't her, this isn't what did this to you…_not exactly_…"

The blade stays where it is, still trembling. Unsteady, it recuts Yuna again and again, and the pain is new, each time. She does not move. She will not move.

"You knew. You made me promise. You give me one good reason to believe you now," Lightning spits, and Yuna can tell it is everything Lightning has not to step beside her and plunge Enkindler straight through Anima's throat.

"I can't. Not yet." At the edge of her field of vision, Yuna can see Kain come up beside her, with Laguna trailing behind. His MP7's not loaded, but he's grasped it so he can use the butt of it as a weapon, if necessary. It won't be. She will win this fight. "You just have to let me talk to her," Yuna insists, her voice level and calm. "If you trust me, you'll...please, just let me talk to her."

As the desert surges around her, Lightning only breathes. Nothing moves. Nothing dares.

Maybe it's something in the way the blade steadies over her face, or the way that Lightning's pupils stretch open into finally still azure pools, but Yuna knows she's broken through.

In a single swift movement, Enkindler comes away from her face. And as Lightning looks down and away from what she's done, Yuna sees her lip curl in a sneer, watches her beautiful face contort with the effort of wrestling her rage back in place.

Yuna wipes the blood from her face with the back of her hand. She wishes there were something she could say to her to take this away. But she knows there isn't. And she guesses Light knows that, too.

"Thank you," is all she says.

Lightning nods, her eyes still averted and Enkindler hanging limply at her side. Her hand just strangles the hilt until Kain very simply, very gently, prises the weapon from her hand. Yuna's surprised she lets him do it, but then sees the look they share as he folds the weapon back into gun form and returns it to her hand, and isn't anymore.

"Good job, kiddo," Laguna calls to her. He's standing behind Lightning now, his grime-stained right hand still solid on his MP7. Yuna can see he's frightened, but there's strength in his eyes when they flit between her and Anima, and she draws from it, the way she does with all of her guardians. "_Now_, why don't you start talking with the nice dead lady so we can all get out here?"

Yuna nods. She can hear Anima shuffle in the sand behind her. She's been watching, waiting, this whole time.

She speaks before Yuna can even turn around.

"_We meet again, Summoner_." Anima's voice whispers into the corridors of her mind. The others will not hear this, but that, perhaps, is for the best. At least for now.

"We do." Yuna bows in acknowledgement, uncaring that her skirt is flying up around her hips and that the motion forces Laguna's revolver to press into her stomach. As she dips to the lowest point of the motion, blood creases into the curve of her nose and upper lip. "Lady Anima," she replies, rising. "What _happened_ to you?"

"_You mean this?_" In this form Anima's arms are unchained, and she uses her spoiled fingers to point to herself. "_Her Providence has chained me to my dream. Her bidding is that I serve her in this fashion._"

"But," Yuna asks, "How did you get here? It's different with you than when I summoned Bahamut. You were here, weren't you, even before I called? But…I thought Aeons could only be beckoned by – "

"_No, child,_" Anima cuts her off. With surprising quickness, her half rotted body bends at wrong angles, attempting…some kind of gesture, Yuna thinks. It's as if she's trying to move like a human would, but she's forgotten how. "_How deep did Yevonite lies bleed into all of our minds_," Anima continues. "_Aeons may be called by Summoners. Fayth by…something greater. Gods, perhaps, my son might have called them."_

"You were summoned here by…Chaos and Cosmos?"

Puppet-stringing her body into some other almost-human shape, Anima's voice in her mind sounds cold notes of contempt. As regal as her Fayth was, so long ago. "I_ have no concern for the Lufenian's murdered bride. Nor the crazed child of their making. Although I understand why she requires his destruction_." She pauses, as if thinking. "_No, I was called by the mistress of the Door of Souls. I am asked to guard her dead as they pass. It is penance, perhaps, for what I allowed Seymour to become._"

The blood isn't stopping, so Yuna spits it from her mouth. She can't see her friends, but she can sense them. Their fear and their misunderstanding. And for their sakes she knows she must keep her voice level. She breathes, thinks of Tidus' warm hand in hers, the cool wind of the Calm Land, before she speaks again.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Anima's visible eye is a waxy bead amidst ruined cloth, and it turns in its socket as she gazes at Yuna."_I would not expect you to. And it is unimportant, either way. I was asked to block your path so that I may deliver you a message from Her Providence_."

"Please, Lady Anima." Yuna bows again so she doesn't have to look at the mockery of Anima that stands in front of her. Tidus' smile, she thinks, insistent. "I thank you, for your words, for your help."

"_It is perhaps not something you should thank me for_." Anima's strange body shifts position again before she speaks. A bandage falls loose, and the wretched smell of human decay chokes the air. She continues. "_The time of reckoning is near. Pulse himself is gone from here, but his sisters gather their champions. Linzei and Her Providence, they prepare..._" Anima cocks her head like a bird. "_I am told to tell you that you are all welcome to take haven at her throne. But before you come, you must seek the Lufenian's mage, as Bahamut bid you. He will burn the parasite from your companion's breast, that which makes her unclean_."

Rising from her second bow, Yuna's eyes narrow. "But Lady Anima. Who is 'Her Providence'? And, if she did this to you, then –"

"_I may only speak what I can, Summoner,"_ Anima interrupts, raising a soft, dead hand. Bits of it flake off as she moves and are lost to the wind. "_You may decide as you wish_."

The words edge around the rim of Yuna's understanding. She nods. "Can you tell us anything else? What this _place_ is, what killed...what killed Bahamut?"

Anima's corpse hesitates. "_I will tell you what I know. That this place is the beginning and it is the end; and that Spira is to this Rift as a shadow is to that which casts it. That Bahamut's dream was shattered by the true lord of dragons, one who hunts you, as Lindzei does, though for other purposes entirely_."

"You mean they're not connected?"

"_The Lufenian has made you prey for many hunters, Summoner_," Anima responds after a quiet moment. "_Some, perhaps he intended. Others he knows not of. Cosmos' husband is a fool granted too much power_."

"Cosmos' husband?" Yuna's taken aback. "What – "

"_You did not know? That his is the game that Cosmos and her Child have played with you?"_ A bitter laugh rings in Yuna's mind. "_This is their version of mercy. By his favor are you brought before Her Providence's throne.__Guard your crystals well. You will be unable to pass without them_."

"But they're just rocks, Lady Anima." With the back of her hand, she brushes the still flowing blood from her face. "They…they have no power…"

"_Don't they?"_ Anima makes a noise in Yuna's mind that sounds like sighing, turns her ruined face out into the void. "_I will give the murdered bride that she is clever. But I can say no more than that, I have risked much already with this confidence. Merely know that there is a price to pay for all things, child."_

Yuna's heart clenches at Anima's words. "What do you mean risk…I would not have you come to harm…"

"_It is too late for that_," Anima replies. "_Her Providence is no goddess of mercy. Besides that, I am in your debt, for what you did for my son_."

Swallowing hard, Yuna averts her eyes, ashamed. Seymour's name is still ice in her veins, even now. She had wanted so much to help him see… "But…I wasn't able to help him at all."

For the first time since they began speaking, Anima undulates forward. She puts a cold, decaying hand on Yuna's cheek, and the action is tender, like that of the mother that once she was. "_You killed him. You set him free. It was all he wanted. And I think, in the end, he was pleased it was you who did it. He cared for you, as much as he was capable of caring for anyone_."

Yuna doesn't answer. She simply lays her cheek into what remains of Anima's flesh, feels it come apart underneath the pressure. Behind her, she can hear Lightning's soft sounds of disgust, but they don't bother her.

After a while, Anima speaks again. "_Your companion is right to fear me,"_ she says, and the voice in her mind has the tone of confession. "_Pulse and Lindzei are cruel in what they fashioned as their children. I am a favored toy of their sister's, and that which poisoned your friend was made in my image. It is another sin of mine, of many. I am chained, and my lips are stayed from human words, but if you can, beg her forgiveness, for me_."

Tears well in Yuna's eyes. By the light of the low orbiting pyreflies, she can see the ragged holes in Anima's cheeks, the way the blue feathered scales that line her skull and jaw have lost their iridescence. In Spira, she was mistress of all she saw. Here, she is a slave. And it breaks her heart.

"Of course I will," Yuna replies. "Of course."

"_You should have been my daughter_," Anima says, dropping her hand from Yuna's face and curling the flaking-flesh fingers around Yuna's immaculate upper arms. And though they have the texture of curdled milk, Yuna doesn't shudder. She doesn't want to. "_In another universe, perhaps_."

The tears that have been welling in Yuna's eyes finally fall, cutting clean tributaries through ages of grime and drying blood. She does not know why she's weeping now, when she shed no tears for Bahamut. But then, Bahamut would never have wanted them. Anima, for everything she's lost, might feel better to know that someone still has tears left to cry for her.

"Lady Anima," Yuna answers, bowing a third and final time. "It was good, to see you again."

Anima steps back."_I must go now. I will return the bridge, your way forward. But be warned, Lindzei draws her servants from all dark places. Beware of what you keep in your minds_."

With that, Anima backs away. As she does so, Yuna can see her putrefying mouth open, and she knows that what will be unleashed from the corpse's throat – the sound that will break the charm of the Obscure – will not be whispered into the corridors of her mind, but screamed to the open void.

As if anticipation, the pyrefles that have been hanging in low orbit around them converge around Anima's face. And for a moment, in their living light, Yuna thinks she catches a glimpse of the Fayth she saw that day in Baaj: her flawless face, her lustrous hair, her too-human eyes.

Anima's lips are fully parted now, the blighted fangs bared. Throwing a quick glance back over her shoulder, Yuna barely has time to catch Laguna's gaze and mouth '_Brace yourself_' before a shriek shatters the atmosphere and sends pyreflies wilding in improbable directions, like confetti, Yuna thinks, at a parade...

Closing her eyes, she listens, lets the sound wash her skin.

It's a song of mourning. It's a cry of joy.

When it ends and Yuna lets her eyelids flutter open, Anima is gone and the bridge is back and their path through the sky is clear. She takes a long, deep breath, and turns back to face her companions.

"Everyone," Yuna says, wiping the sludge of bloody sludge of tears from her face. "Before we go I…I have to tell you what she said."


	6. CIV2: A Path Through The Empty Sky

**Ibid: **Same everything as before. **  
><strong>

* * *

><p>There's nowhere to run.<p>

Pressed flat against the limestone wall behind the mana cascade - gobs of raw, snot-textured mana globbing on her face - this is something Tifa Lockheart knows for _sure_. There's no tunnel large enough for her and Vaan to squirm through, and they've climbed as high as they can up the rock shelf. They're stuck. And all that's separating them from the monstrous bat-human things trying to kill them is the thundering cascade that pours maybe a half-inch from her nose. Vaan's beside her, but she can't turn to look at him because there's not enough room to move. There's barely enough room to breathe.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit_. Tifa grits her teeth then breathes through them.

Her slimy hands are filled with Vaan's trembling fingers. She squeezes them so tight she can feel the small veins in his hand race in time with his skittish pulse.

It's so damn loud back here. And it's _so damn bright_. Tifa's eyes and ears hurt, but not enough to pull her senses away from what's happening. The sound of screeching demons still rings in her head. _StopStop__**Stop**_. Their distorted silhouettes still glide in front of the cascade. _Getting bigger._ _**Getting closer.**_

There are so many. There's no way to fight through them. And there's still _absolutely _nowhere to run.

As more mana splatters her, Tifa scrunches up her nose and swallows the scream that gurgles in her throat. Her clothes are soaked through, and she's coated in so much of the stuff she wants to puke her guts out. Dull fists of stone press into the soft bruises that elevator up her spine, and she uses the pain to distract herself from remembering all the hollow-heads she's known, the ones with mako-poisoning so bad their brains nearly rotted out of their skulls

_Like Cloud,_ she doesn't want to think, but does. And them, too, if they don't find a way to get out of here soon.

Well, maybe just her, actually. She doesn't think people from Vaan's world get mako-poisoned, so that's good, at least.

_Fuckity __fuck__, Tifa._ She seals her eyes shut, tries to concentrate as the poison unfurls in her bloodstream. _There's gotta be a way out of this, c'mon, c'mon, __**c'mon**_**.** The thoughts beat through her head in crazed, staccato rhythm, the nonsensical tin tapping of wind-up toy drums. _Think, think, __**think.**_

But she can't. It hurts. It's just...starting to hurt...so _bad._

_No._ Tifa crushes Vaan's hand in hers. _Can't give up._ _Can't..._

It's a hard yank on Tifa's hand that snaps her eyes open again. And the second she does, she wishes she'd kept them closed, because _oh no...oh **shit**..._they've been found. And worse than that that, the thing that's found them, the thing that's flapping its enormous wings a few feet beyond the vertical mana sea that falls in front of her face is the fun-house mirror image of something that used to be a man, once.

Cid. Cid Raines.

_Oh__. Oh you poor..._

The seconds he spends simply hovering in front them are heavy and poignant and dense. His silhouette is bleary edged from the falling mana, but it's him. She can see it. She can feel it. He's _alive_. Somehow.

_Lindzei,_ the answer unfurls in her mind. And seeing Cid's face like this – that haunting, sculpted, buried-alive crystal face remade in flesh and blood - is enough for the realization of what they're dealing with to crest over her mind. They're not fighting something like Sephiroth, the man who would be god; or even Chaos, a limited god of a ruined world. It's something else entirely that's trying to kill them now, and Tifa can't think up words to describe how cold it makes her.

Vaan realizes it too, and through her fingers she can feel his body bow-string taut.

The ghost of the man that was once Cid Raines wings forward, and the indeterminate lines of his features resolve into the telltale angles of relentless beauty. And while Tifa knows without question that he's here to kill them, what she feels as he approaches – mixed in and mixed up with all the terror and the shock and the sick twinges of mako-poisoning – is pity.

_Oh, Cid. What did she __**do**__ to you? _

With hypnotic grace, he lingers, suspended in the air. It's the exact depth of the mana cascade that separates them now and not one shadow's width more. He's looking straight in her eyes. She looks right back.

A single, scarless hand pushes through the impossibly heavy mana flow as if it's water in a quiet mountain stream. Mana-drenched and mana-bright his eloquent fingers curl, request a dance.

It's not like Tifa thinks about what she does next. She doesn't really have time to. But she figures the only chance Vaan has to get away is if she distracts Cid long enough. He won't kill her right away. She knows he won't.

The still air quivers, waits for her to make a choice.

Prying her fingers out of Vaan's grip, she turns to look at him. She winks. Smiles. Mouths: "Run". And then she pushes him as hard as she can away from her before clasping Cid's perfect hand in her own.

"_Tifa, __**no!**_" Vaan screams. Stumbling sideways, he rebalances himself quicker than Tifa thought possible. He tries frantically to grab her and she can feel his surprisingly strong grip pull at her upper arm, but it's too late. His mana-slippery fingers can't hold her back, and before Tifa knows what's happening to her she's being dragged forward through the cascade by a cold, cold hand that feels mostly like skin, but a little like something else, too.

So much mana hits her at once Tifa seizes up. Both the sheer force of it and the nauseating toxicity should knock her out but it doesn't. So when gravity forces the viscous liquid past the barrier of her lips, she _feels it_. It barrels through the gate of her throat and fills her stomach; it refluxes up through her sinuses and out her nostrils. And for the half second it takes Cid to gather her into his arms she can't tell if she's drowning or having a stroke or both.

By the time Cid presses her to the tempered steel of his breastplate, Tifa's shuddering and vomiting and can't stop. She heaves over his arms until it hurts, until there's no mana left in her stomach, until her gag reflex is exhausted and her throat is so raw and sore her glottis feels like a torn flap of skin. And her head's spinning, it's spinning in all directions and she can't make it stop…

The fragmentary images invade her eyes are of past and present. Of Midgar and Mideel and Cloud and Aerith and Marlene. Of Dissidia and Chaos and Comos and Aerith again. Of Vaan and his stupid _rats, and __oh __**please**__ be alive, __**please**_. Of Cid Raines' magnificent, cloud-white wings beating against the glimmering darkness of an imprisoned sky.

It could be that Tifa feels a gauntleted hand pull a vomited strand of hair from her lips, but she could have imagined it too. She relaxes her head against his chest, and for a moment as they descend, it's as if she's being borne someplace kind and free of violence, a child in the arms of an angel.

When they land, Cid deposits her on the limestone floor in a heap of soaked through clothes and tangled limbs that don't work. She sees her own hair plastered in pretty, swirly patterns on the sparkling floor, her own white hand loosely uncurled against the stone. Above her, the other demons swoop and circle in hunting formation, but none of them are holding Vaan, so she's happy.

_Maybe__ …__he got away_. Tifa twitches, coughs. _Maybe…_

It's such a happy thought that Tifa wants to hold on to it, but the mana that's poisoning her blood keeps twisting her spine in strange directions. She writhes. _It hurts. It hurts…she doesn't remember...it **hurting** this much..._

"Ignobility and dishonor." Cid's voice in real life is as beautiful as the whisper she remembers. "I am sent to slit the throats of children in their beds."

Tifa's slackened mouth tries to form words, but can't. The poison is gnawing at the edges of her mind, and her nerves won't fire right. Her tongue sits still in her stressed-out throat, thick and swollen and disobedient. A demented "ngh" is the best she can manage, and she hates the way it sounds.

"Say nothing," she hears Cid mutter. The sound of his steps echoes in her ears, and as he stands over her, the shadow of his wings is as broad and majestic as they are. "Please. Allow me."

Squirming on the cavern floor, Tifa looks up at him through strands of mana-soaked hair. Still haunting or haunted or something in between, his face is a graven image of limitless, terrifying indifference. His shimmering armor is resplendent in the mad light of the Limit Break, but the only thing Tifa's paying attention to is the white-gold magic he cups in the palms of his hands.

He's going to kill her now, she's sure of it.

_Sorry, guys_. Tifa sends the thought out to all of them, all of her friends, in every world. _I wanted to see you again…so, so much_.

As the magic slips from his fingers, Tifa braces herself. She expects pain. Her spine arches in needy anticipation of it. But what she feels when Cid opens his palms and pours the spell over her twisting body is the exact opposite. Not pleasure – _not really_ – but a complete absence of suffering. And like the sweetness of air after suffocation, it's pure and cleansing and filled with new life.

The excess mana evaporates from her body. Poisoned fingers unclaw from her brain.

"Ah," she breathes. "_Ah_."

"Can you speak?" Cid's voice resonates through the cavern. "Answer me, if so."

Still weak, Tifa rolls to her side and pushes herself up on her forearm. She doesn't understand anything that's just happened. "Why…Why did you do that…Aren't you here…to kill us..."

"I am," Cid answers simply, the magic in his hands. His face is a calm mask. Above them, the dark things swirl in whirlwind patterns, a gathering storm.

Tifa laughs a short, weak laugh. "You've got a funny…way of killing people…"

Keeling down beside her, Cid pins his gaze to hers. Fractal patterns of crystal shine in the depths of his irises, the very DNA of frost. "Your crystal, please."

Tifa blinks. _He wants my stupid rock_? "What…do you want my…crystal for?"

"I want _nothing_. She does. Give it to me."

Shuddering, Tifa shakes her head, forces herself to keep talking, even though she's still weak. The longer she talks, he longer Vaan has to get out. "Why don't you just take it from me?"

"If it were possible to do so," Cid answers, and the shadows of the demons stretch long across his radiant face, "you would be dead already."

Spidering back on her palms, Tifa's eyes widen. "Is that…is that why you healed me?"

"Partially," Cid replies, grabbing her arm. Tifa feels the contact shudder through her, and she can't understand how flesh that seems so alive can feel so dead. "The gifts of harmony must be freely bestowed. They are of little use to Her, otherwise."

"You've got to be joking," Tifa answers bitterly. Her head is still soggy from the mana, but she's sure of one thing. If this Lindzei thing wants her crystal, then it'll have to pry it from her cold, dead fingers. "Why would I give you my crystal?"

Too slowly by far, Cid raises his eyes from Tifa's face. He smirks but his face is devoid of anything resembling human mirth. Releasing her arm, he raises his hand. Snaps his fingers.

"Because," he says, raising a hand to the unquiet cloud of demons flapping overhead. "The Cie'th may have something of interest to you."

In sick predictability, the flock of demons parts. And of course – _why would it be any other way_ – struggling in its midst is Vaan, his face twisted with rage. Tifa tries to struggle to her feet, but Cid's hand returns to her arm, and it's hardness shames steel. She's pinned.

"Vaan!" she screams.

The sound of their wings beating as they descend reminds her of the swarming of bats. The sound of their moaning voices, of…nothing.

"Let her _go_, freak show," Vaan threatens as they land. "_Let her __**go**_." He's twisting and kicking against the scabrous grey creatures that rub their deformed, featureless faces against his, but it's no good. He can't escape. And the more he tries, the tighter the creatures hold him, using their hulking arms to twist and pull his body. Even from the ground she can see his shoulders stretch in their sockets. Much more and they'll pop right out….

"_VAAN!_" Tifa screams again. "_NO!_"

"You are not in a position to dictate terms." Still kneeling, Cid swings his gaze back and forth between them. "You may give your crystals to me freely, and I will kill you quickly. Or you may struggle, and I will deliver you to Her, and She will convince you by other means."

"Cid," Tifa pleads, panicking for the first time. "Please, please _no_. You can't…"

The crystal cold eyes flicker at the sound of the words that come out of Tifa's mouth, a glimmer of light over frozen snow. "What did you call me?" He speaks in a dead whisper. "What did you _just __**say**_?"

"Your name." Tifa's confused, but she sees her opening. Leaning forward, she uses her free hand to cup his face. The alabaster skin is freezing, but she holds it still, forces his eyes to hers. Mana drips from the back of her hand to trace the sculpted angles of his face. "_Cid. __**Cid Raines**__**.**_ Don't you remember me?"

They hold one another's gaze in silence for a long time. Their eyes are locked together, and Tifa's stunned by what she sees there. Crystal lattices spun like strange dreams, yes, but behind them, there's something else too. Something almost human…

_Sadness_, Tifa thinks. _Regret. Loss…of __**everything…**_

His grip loosens, and Tifa pulls free but doesn't pull back. Instead, she grasps the other side of his face, desperate to reach through to the part of him that's still a man. "Please, Cid. Please. You don't have to do this."

"I..," he hesitates, but Tifa can still feel him tremble underneath her fingers. "I have no name – "

"Yes, you do." The voice that answers is soft and vaguely accented and shatters the gaze Cid and Tifa are sharing. "And it is as she says, abomination."

Shaking his face free from Tifa's grasp, Cid rises. "You have no stake in this, Minwu. We will deal with the Lufenian in turn."

_What? Who's_… Lacking the strength to stand, Tifa's head snaps towards the sound of the voice and is shocked by what she sees there. A man, standing in a blizzard of white cloth and magical distortion, clutches what looks to be a battered tome in his right hand. He's holding himself straight, but Tifa can tell by the way the articulate musculature in his abdomen bunches and strains that it's an effort for him to just stand there.

Red blood stains the white fabric that shrouds his face, but his eyes blaze.

Swiveling her head back towards Vaan, Tifa tries to catch his attention and fails. He's staring at the mage with a tight, narrow expression, like he's trying to pick someone out of a lineup.

"That," the mage – _Minwu?_ – answers, holding the tome up before him, "is about to change."

The unmistakable scratch of unsheathing steel grates against Tifa's ears. "You were permitted to leave your prison? Truly, we are servants of merciful gods."

"Do not speak to me of _gods_, Cid Raines," Minwu spits. "You knew better that that, once. These people are under my protection. Leave them."

A soft sound escapes Cid's pressed-together lips. "What you do may well mean war. A granted favor is not a thrown gauntlet. You join the Lufenian's lot to theirs?"

"I join…" the mage coughs red blood, but his grip on his tome tightens. The air of the cavern snaps with ozone and echoes with the sounds of the Cie'th as they cry. "I join my lot to theirs."

Cid's sword is drawn and pointed in front of him. As it captures the blistering light of the cavern, it's the radical edge of a scalpel, poised to cut. "So be it."

Tifa can't keep track of anything that happens next. Her head won't think, isn't clear, but even if it was, there's no way she could keep any of this straight. The fray is all ice-bright steel and liquid gold magic, moving at eye blurring speeds. The killing flash of a blade is blocked by a dense rush of Protection. Cie'th screech and converge on Minwu like a swarm of crows. Glints of platinum armor dance with swirls of white cloth as two men pivot – sorcerer and swordsman, avenging seraph and bleeding man – in the eye of a black-winged storm.

Everything Tifa has wants to get up and help but she can't. Her joints are soft and unresponsive. The most she can manage is to drag herself over to where the Cie'th have dropped Vaan in a pile and grab his outstretched hand.

"Are you okay?" she screams, although she's sure he can't hear her.

Vaan nods, hugs her tight. She buries her face in his hair and leaves it there.

It's the smell that tells Tifa that something's happening. A sick-making aroma of burning human skin. Snapping her head up from Vaan's face, Tifa turns and sees Minwu standing back out of the reach of Cid's blade. The tome he's clutching glows a color Tifa can't describe, but that's not what catches her eye. It's the way the air seems to boil around his right hand, the way the molecules of oxygen in the cavern seem to heel to his command. The empty space around him quivers and distorts, superheated.

_It's the force_, Tifa thinks, _of just one little atom__._ And as the fire rises in his eyes, Minwu splits it.

"_Ultima_." Tifa doesn't so much hear the word spoken out loud as she hears it ring in the chambers her mind. And the voice that speaks it is Cid's.

_How?_

Stepping back, Cid raises his hand to his face and tries to block the force that rages towards him. But it's already far, far too late.

The Cie'th are incinerated. There's nothing left of them, not even ash. And Cid – _monstrous, angelic, just barely alive Cid _– stands with one half of his face charred to horror. One of his wings is torn clear from his left scapula. From beneath the melted sinew and burned blood, chunks of crystal gleam.

He's in utter ruin, but for some reason, he doesn't seem to mind. Something that looks like a rueful half smile creases his lips as he reaches behind his back and presses a massive cure spell into his broken wing. As it does its work, yanking and knitting the appendage back in place, everything's still and soft and quiet like the morning's quiet, when there are no people to disturb it.

Cid doesn't bother to heal anything else. And when it's over, he looks not at Minwu, but at Tifa. And he looks at her for far, far too long.

"The die is cast," he says finally, bending his knees and then launching himself at a clean vertical straight into the sky.

"So it is," Minwu whispers, collapsing against a boulder in a heap of cinder-stained cloth.

With Vaan's help, Tifa struggles to her feet. Her head is spinning. _It's too much_, she thinks, shuddering against Vaan's shoulders. She can't…she just can't …it's all just…so… She shakes her head clear of whatever it is her tilt-a-whirl brain was trying to think and just focuses on Vaan's warm, slender body. The fact that they're still together, still breathing, still here.

Thanks to Minwu, whoever he is.

"Hey," Tifa whispers into Vaan's ear as they make their way over to him with slow, deliberate steps. "Do you…know this guy?"

"No," Vaan answers, although his voice quavers a bit. "And…did you _see_ that?"

By the time they reach him, Minwu's managed to push himself more or less to his feet, although he's still leaning heavily on the stone. "Hey," Tifa says. "Are you okay? Thanks for the help – "

"You…you must be Tifa," Minwu says, pulling himself straight and nodding in greeting. "Aerith… Aerith has told me much of you…"

Tifa inhales a quick breath. "You know Aerith?"

"Well," he says, and the way the word falls from his lips tells Tifa everything she needs to know. "My apologies, I know this must be confusing for you…"

"No _kidding_," Vaan snaps. "Who the hell are you?"

"Vaan – " Tifa starts.

"It's fine," Minwu coughs. "I'm an ally, Vaan. Please, we must go quickly. The Lufenian…he does not permit me…to leave the Phantom Village and I am much diminished here. I had thought…I could teleport us back but…I –" Minwu stops talking, inhales through an obvious surge of pain, "it appears I overestimated my abilities."

"How badly are you hurt?" Tifa reaches forward to put her hand on Minwu's shoulder, and is relieved that the flesh beneath her fingers is warm and human-feeling. _Oh, good_. "I think I might have something – "

A soft laugh rumbles through Minwu's body. "You are exactly as she describes you, Tifa. But these are not wounds you can heal with potions or the like. The Lufenian has better chains than that. We must leave "

"That's fine and all, guys," Vaan pulls Tifa an inch closer, and though she can tell he's not exactly keen to go with this guy, she can also tell he isn't going to argue. Not now. "But what you're saying is that you're too weak to zap us out of here. And Teefs is too sick to move. So we're getting out of here _how_?"

Minwu pulls the stained veil from his face, revealing olive skin and finely sculpted jaw. Blood pours from his nose, but he has a gentle smile.

"I was told, young man," he hacks, "you know something of _airships?_"

* * *

><p>In a world replete with sunshine, Ellone sits alone in a sea of flowers.<p>

"_You must understand_," Cosmos had said, "_It was never my intention to bring you into this. But I need your help, Ellone_."

The sea breeze plays in her hair; her skin is sun-warmed and salty. She inhales.

"_This will not work without you_."

New grass tickles the skin under her knees.

"_Please, would you lend me your skill?_"

Above her, white gulls call through an unlimited sky.

"You haven't given me a choice," Ellone accuses the absent goddess. "It's not like you've given me a choice. You've taken my family. I'm getting them back."

Her eyes are closed and straining. Tears seal top lid and bottom. Her temples pulse in time.

There are so many things wrong with what Cosmos wants her to do, what Cosmos is using her to do. It's _her_fault her son is like this. She carries the blame on her naked, narrow shoulders. And now she's asking others to help her clean up the mess she made. It's not fair, but Ellone is used to unfair.

The petals under her palms are soft like baby's cheeks are soft. She misses having children around.

Ellone's certain Cosmos doesn't even understand what she's asking. She thinks the only thing she's asking her to do is warn them. But that's not going to be enough. For all her power and glory, all her beauty and grace, Cosmos is as blind as any human.

Dandelion fluff pushes against her cheeks, teasing. Squall used to blow it in her face, back when they'd both had a chance…a chance to be different.

If she thought it would make a difference, she'd tell Cosmos it wasn't going to work. That it was going to require more than just a warning. More than just a limited glimpse into a ruined future. But it's pointless. Cosmos gave up a long time ago. She's finished. Ellone can tell.

The smell of fertile soil fills Ellone's nostrils. She likes it better than the scent of flowers, actually. Fertile soil means things can grow. It smells like possibility.

Only Minwu and Aerith know the truth. She told them, when she found out she didn't need to Junction to Cosmos to get where she needed to go. She showed them, and they saw without looking away. Ellone doesn't think she'll ever be able to forget Aerith's expression. The clenched fist. The set lips. The green, green eyes.

Sun-soaked afternoons on the Cape of Good Hope are meant to stretch on for hours. They are meant to be warm with laughter, wet with kisses, sleepy with 3pm naps. They are meant to take all the time in the universe.

Ellone isn't used to feeling like this. She is used to having faith. Faith, she'd always imagined, was necessary to stay alive. Now she's coming to realize that it isn't. What's necessary for her to stay alive is to find her family. It's up to _her_ this time.

The moving sea murmurs in her ears. When she was little, she thought it was just whispering nonsense. Now she knows better. There are secrets in the sound of the water, if you listen.

Uncle Laguna is easy enough to find. He's found something to take his mind away from whatever he really should be thinking about, the way he always does. He's fantasizing about some woman who isn't Raine, again. But that's not a surprise, not anymore. Sometimes she thinks she made it all up, between them. That they married to make her happy, in the end.

It's amazing how a place can stay so the same when everything else changes. She knows she shouldn't be able to smell it anymore, but there, amongst the flowers, is the scent of baking bread, the smell of a little boy's hair.

Cosmos has lifted the veil on her power. She's not restricted to time now. Or to sleep, even. But it still takes effort, and getting Uncle Laguna's attention isn't easy. Even if she's waving the image of ultimate Chaos right in front of his eyes; showing him clearly what Cosmos and the Lufenian made with their selfishness. They didn't know it would end this way. But then again, parents never know what they do to their children, not really.

The scarf around her shoulders pulls in the wind. She feels it race off her neck but she catches it back, and the fabric beneath her fingers is threadbare and soft.

She sees his terrified face and doesn't want to do this to him. But she knows she has to. She knows that she has to _keep on doing this_, until he sees what she sees. She has to keep showing him until he knows what to do.

Ellone knows she can't change the past. But she can change the future.

"You have to go _back_, Uncle Laguna," she says, conjuring the face again. "_You have to go __**back**_."

* * *

><p>Sound, Lightning remembers, doesn't exist in a vacuum. It can't, because in a vacuum, the sky is actually empty. There aren't any molecules to create sound waves. As a result, space is something beyond silent. Sound doesn't just <em>not<em> exist here. It _can't._

Of course, that's if you're in a world where physics actually works. Where things actually make some sense. Because _here_ – even though they're taking a shortcut through the guts of a void – there's air. It's just enough to breath and speak, to carry the sharp sound of her boots as it echoes off the bridge into her ears. But still, if you put any faith in science, it shouldn't be there at all.

Tightening her grip on Enkinder, Lightning feels something rise in her stomach. There's something _wrong_ with this. It's not just the air. It's not just the fact that the bridge was guarded by that horrible fucking _thing _that Yuna keeps telling her has nothing to do with her brand. No, something just feels off with it. Because in a world that's filled with demons and dragons and monsters of legend, having a perfectly human sized bridge appear pretty much out of nowhere smells an awful lot like a trap.

_But then again_, Lightning thinks, taking in a long draught of thin air, _what choice do we have_? They can risk it and cross and _maybe_ die. Or stay over on the other side and die for sure.

It's not much of a choice. So she puts one foot in front of the other. Keeps her eyes front and tries not to look down into the dark. There's a fall down there that'll go on forever. Airless and endless, you'd be dead a long time before you hit the ground.

"Be careful, guys," Laguna calls over his shoulder from point. The bridge is narrower than any of them expected, and he's leading Yuna behind him by the tenuous bind of his hand. "It's a _long_ way down."

Lightning shakes her head and wonders when exactly Laguna's talent for pointing out the completely fucking obvious stopped being annoying and started being almost…endearing. "Cute, Loire."

"I'm not afraid of heights or anything," Laguna responds, his voice brittle with fake-sounding brightness, "But _still_ – "

"But _still_," Kain interrupts from directly behind her. "Methinks the Lady doth protest too much."

The air trembles with one of Yuna's musical giggles before Laguna speaks again. "You realize your smart mouth isn't getting your fifty gil back, right, Highwind?"

"Perhaps not," Kain calls back. "But it does soothe the blow, somewhat."

A smirk curls over Lightning's face and she tosses it over her shoulder at Kain, who meets it with one of his own. Their eyes meet for a swift moment, and the sharp mirth that winks in his gaze cuts the thin dark. "Can we save idiot-time for later, guys?"

"Yes, Mom." Laguna answers.

Lightning decides it's not worth the effort to respond.

The trek through the sky continues quietly for a while, and Lightning focuses on controlling the gooseflesh that's breaking out over her lower back and upper arms. The desert night was cold, but this is so much colder. It's true there's no wind, per se, but there's nothing to hold any heat either, so the frigidity of the air just settles into her pores, pushes its small, insinuating fingers underneath her skin. So as the walk wears on, Lightning's glad that the pyreflies close their orbit around their faces. They're warm enough – or they're warmer than the air, anyway – so she welcomes them and their gentle, brushing touch.

It happens gradually, so gradually that Lightning doesn't notice right away. The pyreflies that gather in the hollow of her throat and the dip between her collarbones feel like the fluttering of butterflies. They're soft, and the light they shed is silent and calming. It's not until Lightning hears a soft, insectoid buzzing rising in crescendo at her ears that she starts thinking that something's off. She begins swatting at them, but they don't scatter. Like mosquitos, they converge, and magic that once felt round and edifying and pretty now narrows and sharpens, sinks a hollow fang through her flesh.

And what it's sucking out feels so much more fundamental than blood.

_Serah smiling_, she sees the image fever dream in front of her face, _then disappearing. Dark things, with crimson orbs in their chest. Her mother…her mother's softly dying face…_

"Yuna," Lightning calls out, swiping her free hand in front of her face. She feels dizzy all of a sudden, and hot, and she's struggling to keep her balance. "What's _happening?__"_

"I…I don't know," Yuna answers. She's freed her hand from Laguna's and is trying unsuccessfully to steady him around the waist. He's not making any noises, but there's enough in his inane, jerky motions to tell Lightning that whatever's happening to her is happening to him, too.

"I thought you said these things were _harmless_," Lightning growls.

"This isn't how they _normally_…" Yuna trails off, but Lightning can almost feel the realization in her soft, sucking breath. "_Oh, no_. Anima said, Anima said She'd…oh no…we have to run," Yuna's voice is panicked now. "_Light._ We have to _**run**_."

"What?" Lightning pushes more of the pyreflies away. They're buzzing around her head like hornets, now, their calm light suddenly wild and threatening.

"_Light_," Lightning's never heard Yuna's voice sound so commanding. Laguna's making small, pitiful noises now – something that sounds like a name – and she's trying to push him forward even though he's doubled over. "_Please listen._ I'm sorry…I…I didn't understand before…We've got to _run_."

Lightning doesn't bother trying to ask questions. She just turns on her heel to yell the order back at Kain, but he's not paying attention to her in the slightest. He's looking back, the way they came, at a group of figures that seem to be coalescing out of the pyreflies themselves. And one of them seems to be wearing…Kain's armor…

No. It's not Kain's armor. It's something else. Scaled and black enough to blend into the void that spins out behind them, it's the helm that catches Lightning's attention the most. Looking more like a crow's head than a dragon, the beak of the thing closes over the face it contains with a grinning malice. She can't see anything of the man who wears it, other than thin, painted lips curled in a familiar sneer.

"_You_." There's nothing in Kain's voice but hate.

"Me," the thing answers in a perfect mimic of that same voice. And as it walks towards them, Lightning can see a battalion of grey figures behind it...grey figures…with glowing red orbs wedged into their chests and scabbed-up rotting flesh and …_no…no,_ _not this too._

She knows what these things are. _Cie'th._ Aborted servants of the Fal'Cie. Brainless and damned for their defiance, they're monsters, zombies, _her._ Or what she'll become.

On her breast, her brand scratches and burns. In her brain, mad laughter howls. And the more she thinks about it, the more pyreflies she sees congeal into Cie'th form, mocking and mindless and hunting.

_Gotta keep control, gotta keep control, gotta keep __**control.**_

Enkindler is snapped to gun form before her mind is finished whispering terror to itself. Dropping into a ready position, she pivots, first looking forward at Laguna and Yuna and then back at Kain, and _oh, oh __**fuck**_.

They're surrounded.

"It appears that I have you," the thing in Kain's form observes, laconic.

Kain ignores the comment entirely, unhooking Gungir from his shoulder and twirling it to a diagonal guard. "What do you want?" he spits.

"For you to die," it responds, a slow, languid grin metastasizing over its face. Behind it, the Cie'th shuffle in brainless anticipation. "But She has promised me something of greater value that even that, should I bring you alive. So I must suffer you a while longer."

"_Kain_," Lightning whispers, sprinting a few paces towards him and then crouching back into form again. Her brand is bubbling on her chest, but she speaks through the pain. "Who the _fuck_ –"

The thing raises its chin and answers in Kain's place. "He hasn't told you, whore? Pity, poor fool must be so embarrassed – "

"_Mind your tongue_," Kain cuts him off.

Crossing its arms, the thing in the gross mockery of Kain's armor laughs a thin mockery of Kain's laugh. "A champion of whores now? Fitting. Ricard would be proud."

Kain doesn't move and his voice doesn't waver. "If you do not mind your tongue," he raises Gungir an inch higher. "I will cut it out. We are going nowhere with you."

The thing shrugs, and the Cie'th behind him roil and lurch. "Very well," it responds, urbane. "Bleed then. It's little difference to me."

Lightning's brand is burning so hot now that beads of sweat backstroke over her gooseflesh. She shivers, impatient, and she can feel that same uncontrollable rage lurch up through her throat, that _same one_ she felt when…_destroy…destroy Lindzei now...her minions_…Lightning grits her teeth. Tries to control the power that's swelling her capillaries, pounding the nerves in her head. Looking wildly around her, she sees Laguna finally straightening, Yuna pulling her tiny revolver out of her obi, the Cie'th lurching around, ready to strike.

She sucks in a heavy breath, pulls the safety back on Enkindler. They don't have time for this. She doesn't have time for this. And so Lightning steps forward, shouldering past Kain and raising the sight to her eye. She aims dead center at the thing's breast. "Stop calling me a whore," she says, squeezing down.

A wild riot of sound erupts around them as Enkindler's bullets ricochet off of the dark dragoon's armor and it's pushed back several feet back into a choppy sea of Cie'th. Hollow point bullets scream off of tempered steel and make soft, organic squishing noises as they lodge themselves in Cie'th-flesh. Yuna screams: "_Run_" at the same time the butt of Laguna's MP7 thuds into a glowing red orb. Beneath their feet, the crystal bridge sings with impact.

Lightning keeps firing, pivoting on her left foot between each volley to spread the fire in front of her, and behind her. It's the _burning_, though, the blistering sear on her left breast that's starting to fill her senses, her mind. She looks down, sees the light starting to bleed through her turtleneck, feels the power start to well behind her eyes. Biting through her lower lip, she breathes a shuddering breath and doesn't let up on the trigger until there are no more rounds left in the chamber.

Taking advantage of the confusion the rain of Lightning's bullets have caused, Kain backs up into her and grabs her upper arm. "Take them and go," he orders, gesturing with his chin to the light that's knifing through her turtleneck. "Use your magic. Burn through those things. I'll hold this end."

Lightning growls the response through gritted teeth, snaps Enkindler back into a sword. "_Fuck off_. I'm _**not**_ leaving you here."

Kain's face twists into a knot of anger. "You _are_," he throws her forward, in time to turn and guard a crushing blow aimed at his face. "Someone must stay this position or we all die here."

Breathing out, Lightning nods. The power's racing down her arms now, quivering from her brand to the tips of her fingers, and she knows she doesn't have much time. That she's not going to be able to control it for long. "You _better_ catch up with me."

"If I can." As he kicks the body of a hulking Cie'th off the point of Gungir, he turns to face her. "If I can't…forgive me?" he says and for the first time in all the time she's known him, it's a question.

Even through the burning pain in her chest, Lightning's head snaps up. "Are you _insane_? Why – "

Kain's voice is raw, split open. "_Yes_ or _no_, Lightning."

For a single second that seems like it stretches the entire length of the space between them, Lightning just stares at him. _Forgiveness_. He's always going on about forgiveness, as if it's a state and not something people just _do_. She'd never understood it. Now she does, and it's the most fucking _obvious_ thing in the world.

He's not asking for her forgiveness at all. He's asking her permission...

_Idiot_…And yet…

"Yes," she hisses. She doesn't realize until the word pushes past her lips that it's true.

"Thank you," he replies simply. And then he turns his back to her, ducks into a forward jump, and is gone.

Holstering Enkinlder and bolting in the opposite direction, Lightning reaches for the magic. She can feel it building inside her, _reacting_, reacting to whatever trace of Lindzei lingers here. She can feel whatever it was that took her the other day howling for blood and screaming for control, but she's not going to allow it to touch her mind. Not this time. This time she can feel it. _This time_ it will not own her.

This time it is _hers_.

Racing a few steps ahead, Lightning pushes past Yuna and Laguna and stands in front of the hoard of Cieth that block their path. Magic crescendos in her nerves and is hot and bright. Blisters bubble and squeak on the surface of her brand, but she's not afraid of the pain this time. It's glorious and sacred and she will bend it to her will. She closes her eyes, stills her mind, and conjures the bright white point of ruin. _The still center of the turning world._

_Die,_ she commands the mindless ones before her. Opening her eyes, she repeats: "Die".

And they do. The force that she pulls from her burning brand and funnels through hypersensitive fingertips is scalpel sharp. And of it, she forms living blades of force that hack soft Cie'th skin from softer Cie'th bones.

They do not stand a chance. _Yes._ She likes the sound they make, when they scream. _**More.**_

When the magic finally leaves her, Lightning drops to her knees, heaving with strain from the magic or the bitch of controlling it or both. Her lungs burn, but when she looks up there's no Cie'th in front of them. She's about to smile, to get up and call back to Kain who's still behind them, holding a tide of Cie'th back more or less by himself but then she feels something underneath her hands crack, and her feeble triumph evaporates like it never existed at all.

"_Run_." It's Laguna who realizes first that she's shattered the spell they're standing on, who grabs her up with his good hand and pushes her forward. "_Now, Light_. Right fucking now."

"_No_," Lightning yanks her arm away. "We have to – "

"Too _late_, Light." Laguna's eyes are wild with shock and grief and whatever the pyreflies just showed him. His voice is ragged terror, but he's fighting for control. "We can't help him. _Run_."

Sick with the realization, Lightning knows by the way the crystal is shifting beneath their feet, the way it's groaning and cracking and collapsing under its own weight, that he's right. That the only way out is forward, and that Kain knew it when he stayed where he was. And she knew it when she left him behind.

It's as if something has crawled on top of her stomach and died, but Lightning nods. She nods and she runs forward without a look behind, grabbing Yuna's hand as she goes.

"_Light_," she says softly, her voice half drowned by the sound of screaming crystal as it shatters. But Lightning doesn't have any words to answer her with. She just holds her hand tighter, runs faster, doesn't think.

As soon as Lightning's feet hit solid ground, she pivots on her heel. Watches as the bridge, now in total collapse, starts to come apart not just where she shattered it, but at all the expected points of stress where gravity and weight come out of balance. Inanely, she wonders why now, of all times, the laws of science suddenly have dominion. Now, when she needs them the least.

She's surprised she can still see him. In the tiny moments that it takes the middle section of the bridge to finally shear away from the part that's still connected to the other island, Kain's silhouette is still there, still locked in duel with the creature in the nightmare armor. She sees the last steps of the dance in slow motion. A final shearing block meets a last overhead strike. Hafts crush. Spear-points flash. There is a counter to every motion. Nothing is wasted.

It's an incredible display.

But then gravity asserts its mastery, shows her again that no matter where they are in the universe, they are all prisoners to its hand. In a split second, the floor comes out from beneath him – from beneath him and that monster both – and he's gone. He's gone and he's dead and it happened so fast an irrational part of her mind thinks she should just rewind the scene…change the disc…and…

Lightning's fists clench and unclench like she's being run through with electricity. There's nowhere to run. There's nothing to kill. Her hands don't shake. There are no tears on her face and there's no scream in her throat but she doesn't feel like there's blood in her veins either. Her knees seek to drive her to the earth. She refuses them.

"Sir Kain," Yuna whispers, turning into the cradle of Laguna's good arm. He's not saying anything, but the grime on his face is cut in eloquent patterns of honest tears.

Lightning's eyes close. She bows her head over her necklace and the cold points prick into her hand until she can't feel anything except the needled angles in her palm.

_It was my fault too, Kain…I'm sorry. _

She wishes she could hear the response he'd have to that. Something compresses her throat when she realizes she won't hear his voice again. It was a good voice. He was a good man.

Too bad he'll never hear that from her lips. She thinks….she thinks he'd probably have appreciated it.

_I'm sorry._

It's a long, long time before she turns away from the empty sky.

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER: <strong>En route to the Phantom Village, Minwu tells Vaan and Tifa a fairy tale they'd rather forget. Meanwhile, still reeling from their loss, the part stumbles through their grief and straight into Lindzei's nest. Will Aerith find them in time? And even if she does, will it make any difference at all?


	7. CV: Her Whispering Chains

Chapter V: Her Whispering Chains

**Dedication:**For Zazzy and Distant Glory (my best beta), without whom my imagination is less fun, and without whose encouragement I would have smashed this computer into my face.  
><strong>Thanks:<strong>To Sunne and all the peeps still reading. Bearish piece, and I would blame no-one if they had lost interest by now.  
><strong>Shout-out!<strong>: To starstuff99, for my TVTropes shoutout. That made me way happier than it probably should have.  
><strong>Poll:<strong> Still up on my profile. Please click if you can. For now, this is as long and angsty and meta-y as ever.

* * *

><p>"<em>A safe but sometimes chilly way of recalling the past is to force open a crammed drawer. If you are searching for anything in particular you don't find it, but something falls out at the back that is often more interesting<em>."

― J.M. Barrie, _Peter __and __Wendy_

* * *

><p>Drumming his fingers against the wheel of the <em>Falcon<em>, Vaan decides to look on the bright side. He realizes he's stuck in an Interdimensional Rift filled with flying, brain-sucking zombies. And that Teefs has more or less lost it and can't keep her hands off of that crazed statue. _And_ that their guide or whatever is a freak mage that's dressed in a bed-sheet and bleeding out of every hole in his head. He can't lie. It's kind of a garbage situation. And he's seen garbage situations before, so he knows what he's talking about.

_But __then __again_, he reasons, rolling the sweet, water-on-stone tasting air of the Limit Break cavern over his lips, _he__'__s __got __an __airship_.

And it's a really, _really_ cool airship.

Not the _Strahl_ or anything, he corrects – hastily, because a part of him can't shake the thought that Balthier's got eyes everywhere – but Vaan figures he's gotta start somewhere.

Seriously though, this ship. Vaan wants to describe it the way _he_ would, with an arched brow and a flourish of dry wit. But he can't. The best he can come up with is that it's like one of those ancient sea-pirate ships, the real ones from out of books. He knots his eyebrows, not sure if that's right. _Is __it __really __real __if __it__'__s __out __of __a __book?_ But anyway, it's got _everything_. A crow's nest on a miles-high topmast, an actual gundeck with guns on it, a bowsprit with carvings on the sides and a who-knows-why drill on the prow. Oh, and white sails. Giant ones that fill up with wind and flap like the wings of some cranky old sea-bird, one that always knows its way home.

Vaan knows it's stupid, but he can't help but think that maybe he could just fly this thing all the way back to Ivalice. Or if not Ivalice, someplace else. Someplace brand new and wide open and filled with stuff he hasn't done. It's really everything he can do not to set a random course, kick this thing into gear and blow outta this hell-hole. What's that saying that tall rabbit-eared chick was always repeating…that _one_…that one about…

_Oh, yeah. _

"_Second __star __to __the __right__…_" The words push grains of thought around the memories he's still missing. "_And __straight __on__ '__til __morning_…"

_Right_. Vaan inhales. If he listens hard enough, he thinks he can hear her voice in the wind. _Right, __that __was __it_.

He smiles down at Tifa, who's sitting in front of him with her back propped up against the wheel-shaft. In her hands, she cradles an old-fashioned bearing compass that's filigreed with gold and that Vaan thinks is probably worth a lot of gil. Eventually, she smiles back at him, but it's such a small, trapped thing that Vaan can tell she's still sad about something. Maybe Aerith or dead-statue-guy; or maybe some other person she hasn't told him about yet. Old boyfriend. Stray kid. Diseased vampire. He doesn't really know where that last one came from, but either way, if the right diseased vampire came along, he's pretty sure Teefs could feel sorry for it.

It's like a superpower or something.

Scratching the side of his nose, Vaan looks up and checks their bearings against the glinting compass-point before banking the _Falcon _a few degrees starboard. He just doesn't get why she lets people slide so far under her skin. It's not healthy. He always figured it was pretty obvious that crap things happen to good people. And that good people go bad, even if they don't intend to. But she keeps clinging on and on like she can stop it somehow. Hold on to everyone so maybe at the end, she won't be stuck with nothing.

Vaan shakes his head and watches her forever-long hair lash her face with mana-sparkling whips of black. _Too __bad __it d__oesn__'__t __work __that __way_, he thinks, training his eyes back to the distant somewhere. _You __can __lose __people __without __even __thinking __about __it, __without __even __**trying.**_

"This is pretty awesome, isn't it, Teefs?" he asks after a little while, bored of the silence and his own fractional thoughts. Since she doesn't answer right away, he tries to get her attention by nudging at her with his boot, although he pulls back the second he realizes he's got his foot wedged right in her…

"Vaan!" Tifa drops the compass in her lap and swipes at his leg.

"_Accident_, Teefs." Vaan tries to sound nonchalant even though there's heat racing all the way up his neck. _Damn__it_. "But like I said, cool, huh?"

Tifa cranes her neck all the way back to answer him, until the top of her head rests against the wheel-shaft. Her upturned face is bright with crusty-dry mana but dark with something else. "Yeah." She speaks slowly, deliberately. "And you're good at this, too."

Vaan throws his shoulders back a bit at the compliment. _This __is __**nothing**_, he wants to say - but doesn't. He hasn't quite figured out – yet – how Jecht and Balthier and even Kain can brag and sound all manly and badass and he doesn't want to come off like a moron. So instead he just grins a little wider. "Told you I was," he answers.

Laughing softly, Tifa relaxes her head back down until he can't see her face anymore. "Hey, don't go mixing me up with Light," she says, stretching her mile-long legs in front of her and tipping one of the gyros on the compass. As it spins, it makes a tinkling, musical sound. "I _always_ believed you."

Vaan feels the smile slide off his face at the mention of Lightning's name. He's still pissed they're running to whatever this "Phantom Village" is and not turning the _Falcon_ around right now to help Aerith look for the others. But he lost that argument when Minwu started hacking up blood. He's in the Captain's quarters now, doing whatever it is uber-powerful mages do to keep their faces from falling off.

And he can stay back there for the whole rest of the trip for all Vaan cares.

"Light believes me, too," Vaan says eventually, shaking off his irritation. He concentrates on reading the wind, on pulling the wheel _just __like __that_ so that the Falcon keeps even. "She just won't say so because she gets off on people being scared of her."

For a girl who's usually so ladylike, the snorting laugh that Tifa lets out is pretty much the complete opposite. "M'kay, Vaan. I'm sure she didn't _really_ mean it when she said her left ass cheek could out-fly you."

"Of course she didn't." Vaan shrugs off the dig because Light's got no idea what she's talking about. "Anyway, I'm not afraid of Lightning. Only _Laguna__'__s_ afraid of Lightning."

"Yeah." The word comes out warmed with laughter. "Remember 'Uncle Laguna's shooting school'? I mean, it almost wasn't fair. He was only trying to help – "

"Teefs," he interrupts. "Even _I_know patting Light on the head's a stupid move."

Beneath the billowy storm of her hair, Tifa shakes her head. "I should never have shown her that kick."

"Wait." Disbelieving, Vaan taps his foot on the polished cedar of the deck. "_You _taught her that?"

"Yeah," Tifa answers, shrugging. She holds the compass level with her eyes and watches as the slim gold finger decides between north and northeast. "She'd lost a sparring match or something." She pauses, considers. "I think she was trying to break Kain's spear in half."

Vaan chuckles. "Which spear are you talking about, Teefs?"

"_Vaan_," Tifa scolds. She takes the time to snap the compass back into its slot on the quarterdeck before turning to smack him square in the shins.

"_What?_"

Leaning out over her outstretched legs, Tifa lets the wind carry his question away. She pokes at the yellowing edges of her bruises – careful to avoid the rotten-purple spots in the middle – and then sighs. "It'll be good to see them again."

"Yeah," Vaan says, because it's the only answer he can come up with, the only one he thinks it's worth it to give.

For a long time, the only sound is the heavy flap of canvass. And as Vaan shifts his weight against the tug of the wheel, waves of silent universe lap the prow of the ship, dark as the bottomless sea.

"Hey," Vaan says after a while. The quiet's making him edgy, and although he couldn't've predicted the next words to pop out of his mouth, he's happy with the suggestion. "You wanna go for a ride or something?"

When Tifa looks up at him, her expression's curious, and her face is everything that's beautiful about red and white and black. He doesn't think of her that way, but seriously…"What do you mean, 'a ride'?"

Vaan shrugs, the idea piecing itself together as he speaks. "I mean a _ride_, Teefs. You know, pull the accelerator…go really fast?"

"I get it, Vaan," Tifa answers, a little scowl scrunching up her face. "But we really shouldn't. Minwu's still really weak – "

"Oh, he'll be fine," Vaan cuts her off. "Crazy powerful mage, remember? Incinerated like a _thousand _zombies."

"But – "

"_Trust __me_." Vaan locks the wheel and jogs a step or two back to the brass switch that's fastened to the deck. Ignoring whatever it is Tifa's yelling back at him, he raises his arms, interlocks his fingers behind his neck and stares at it. He's read all kinds of manuals on these old-style ships and he _thinks_ this looks like the accelerator... although it could the _brake_…

_Oh __well__,_ he thinks, shrugging and taking hold of the chance with both hands. _We__'__ll __find __out __soon __enough._

Vaan braces himself, but the actual second he pulls down on the switch, all that happens is a bunch of nothing. The _Falcon_ just sails along stubbornly at a steady forty nauts or so, and Vaan wonders if he's just emptied the bilge instead. But just as he's deciding whether or not to pull the lever in the opposite direction, the quarterdeck starts to rumble beneath his feet, and the pops and squeaks of an engine spluttering from sleep start to sing through his ears. _Got __it_. He smiles, rushes back to the wheel and hopes that Tifa's found something to hang onto. Because this is going to be _fun_…

At least he hopes so. Could be the speed'll just make her puke, but hey. Sometimes you gotta take your chances.

The _Falcon_ doesn't disappoint. As soon as Vaan has his hands back on the wheel he can feel the turbines kick into gear and the heavy air muscle up against his face. They're speeding up at a crazed rate now – probably running sixty, eighty nauts at least – and he's got to push his whole body weight against the wheel to keep the vessel steady. His heart bangs at his ribs, but for the first time since he landed in this stupid excuse for a place, he feels good. Free and clean and like there's almost nothing missing that can't be found again.

_Almost_. Vaan's mind stretches over an empty space, reaching for feathery names in a hollowed-out past and finding…nothing. The wind blows through his empty mind, touching nothing.

"Well?" He ignores the weirdness that's spreading through his chest and calls out to Tifa. His ears ring with the groan of a pissed off engine, and the hot-thick smell of grease and steam coats his nostrils.

"Well _what_?" Tifa's body spiders out over the slick deck. She's not holding onto anything but somehow she manages not to slide clear overboard. "You've _lost __it_, Vaan."

"_**Maybe**_," Vaan turns the Falcon hard to port, lists the vessel on purpose so barrels and gear go clattering across the maindeck. The hole in his head is pissing him off, and he likes the fact he can fill it with the symphonic crash of rolling crates smashing against wrought-iron rails. "You gonna just _sit __there_?"

Tifa looks up at him, eyebrows tied in a knot. He thinks for a second that maybe she's mad at him, but then her expression swings open and Vaan's pretty sure she finally _gets __it_. She smiles, and there are no rusty hinges on it.

"No," she says, flipping forward and taking off towards the mizzenmast. The next words she says she shouts into the wind. "No _**way**_."

Vaan turns the wheel back so the deck's steady underneath her feet. He can't see her face, but when she reaches out to brace herself against the wood, her endless hair wilds out behind her, weaving starlit patterns into the light-black dark.

_This __is __good_, he thinks, drinking the wind and trying to forget on purpose for once. _This __is __okay_.

A lot of long, perfect seconds pass by before Vaan realizes that they're losing speed. The air relaxes against his face and the brassy clunks and pops of the engine die down enough for him to make out the creak of a turning lever and the straining grunt of the guy doing the turning.

"I see you've discovered the accelerator," an accented voice observes, wry.

Vaan grits his teeth. It doesn't seem fair how much this guy and Aerith annoy him. Clenching his fingers over the wheel, he feels his lips slide part of the way over a '_no __kidding_', or a '_really_? or maybe a '_shut-__up __sheet-boy_' but as he turns his head, what he sees pushes his voice in another direction.

He sucks in air through his teeth and winces in sympathy he doesn't want to feel.

"_Whoah_," he says. "Are you _okay_?"

Leaning heavily on the lever, Minwu offers a paper-thin smile in place of a reply. Stripped of cape and cowl and turban, he's bandaged from navel to chest. And while Vaan's got no desire to see this guy half naked, it's actually the way the blood's seeping up through the dressing that catches his eye. It's _wrong_. The wound patterns aren't brown and stationary, the way they should be. Bright red and mobile, they're carving through the healing spells Vaan can see Minwu pour over his own skin. The wiry muscles of his arms, abdomen and chest bunch and strain with the effort of keeping himself upright, but he still doesn't do a great job of it. He just keeps his head bowed over the switch, his olive skin sweat-lacquered and bright over pitted, burnished metal.

"Seriously,' Vaan adds for emphasis when Minwu doesn't answer. "That doesn't look good."

By now, Tifa's made her way back across the deck to Minwu's side. Without a word, she shoulders under his arm and takes his weight against hers. Vaan can hear his ragged breaths as he gathers the strength to speak.

"I assure you," he finally says, straightening. Tendrils of fine black hair splash over a finely boned, angular face as he raises his eyes from the deck. "It looks worse than it is."

"Are you sure?" Concern stains Tifa's eyes a darker shade of ruby. "Shouldn't you go lie down?"

Unwanted fingers of guilt press on the top of Vaan's stomach as he notes the way the cursed wounds claw out from under his bandages and lacerate the bare skin of his arms. "Um, sorry it got a bit rough there. I didn't mean – "

"Hardly, lad." The voice Minwu uses to cut him off is both surprisingly strong and surprisingly amused. "I rather enjoyed it, actually. My apologies for interrupting."

"None of that," Tifa chides, shifting under his arm. "But we need to get you back to bed…"

Stepping out of her grasp Minwu takes a few lurching steps forward before he leans over his knees and shakes his head. "The Lufenian has an ironic sense of humor, Tifa Lockheart," he says, not looking up. "Rest accelerates the degradation. It's best I stay awake for now."

The implications pull all the color from Tifa's face, and Vaan can't blame her. "…But why?" she asks in a small voice. "Why would _anyone_…?"

Making his way over to where the compass sits embedded in the deck, Minwu chuckles. "A good question. One that – what do you call her again – ah, yes, _Cosmos_ ought to have answered some time ago."

Vaan bristles a bit at the way Minwu spits her name. She wasn't perfect, but at least Cosmos wanted to send them back home. "_Hey_, don't –"

"Don't what, boy?" Kneeling, Minwu extends a long finger to dance with a turning gold gyro. He doesn't turn around. "Speak of what I know?" He laughs, and the accent makes Vaan think of cinnamon for some reason. "Come to quarters with me. We have some time. Perhaps this is a tale you should hear."

Vaan shuffles on his feet. Cut up or not, he's still not sure whether he trusts this guy or whether he should throw him in the same boat as Aerith. Unable to decide, he just crosses his arms and glowers. "I don't think this ship's going to fly _herself_."

Minwu throws a gentle smile over his shoulder before tapping sharply on the compass. "Who said she was?"

At Minwu's touch, the compass jumps and clatters. It starts glowing with a telltale magickal glow, and Vaan's about to mutter something about not trusting auto-pilot, but the voice – _like __a __lot __of __voices __at __once, __really, __or __like __a __bunch __of __rustling __leaves_ – that rises from the little device seals his tongue in place against his teeth.

"Still you are foolish, I see."

Vaan scrambles for her name in the holes in his mind. _Second __star __to __the __right __… __Balthier ... __Balthier __was __**always **__with_ … "…Fran?" The tremble in his voice starts from his stomach. "Is that you?"

"So it is," the compass concedes, and for a second Vaan feels like he's talking to a Fran-sounding music box, "and is not, also. Ask she who hears the Green Word, if you would know." The compass pauses, addresses Minwu. "Have you a task for me, mage?"

"I do." The way Minwu bows his head at the compass reminds Vaan a bit of Firion. "If you'd be so kind as to take the wheel for a time? I have some business with these two."

"You ask politely," the compass answers in Fran's haughty tones. "I will do this thing for you. Although," it pauses, as if thinking, "speak lightly to the boy. He frets."

"Fran!" The word is out of Vaan's mouth before he can stop it. Embarrassed and confused as all hell, he speaks directly to Minwu. "I don't get it. If Fran's been here the whole time, why'd you even let me fly her?"

"The question is, why wouldn't I?" Minwu says, rising. A quirky smile tugs on his lips. "She's _your_ airship, after all. Now if you would do me the pleasure," he continues, gesturing through his obvious pain, "please. Come with me."

* * *

><p>Somewhere in the ruins, Laguna Loire pushes a long whistle through fuzzy teeth and shakes his head.<p>

_Not __good_, he thinks, crouching on the balls of his feet beside Yuna. _Really, __really __not __good._

Now, he realizes he's not a doctor, and he's probably the furthest thing on any world to a white mage, but he knows a fatal infection when he sees it. _And __this_, he thinks, staring down at the swollen, hive-pulpy skin under Lightning's brand, _is __it_.

Breathing out a giant puff of sucked-in air, Laguna shakes his head in resignation. Exhaustion pours through his muscles and softens his body. He feels old today. Old and hollow.

"What's the matter with her?" he asks, and even though Lightning's nowhere near conscious, he tries to keep his voice low so he won't disturb her. _Not __that __it__'__d __**help.**_

"Lindzei…" A scratchy voice oozes from Lightning's lips. Laguna ignores it. _For __the __thousandth __time__…_

Yuna's fingers are little white moth wings over the burnt material of Lightning's turtleneck. She doesn't look at him when she answers. "I don't know, Sir Laguna," she says, pushing the fabric aside and unveiling a red, eye-shaped wart that cauliflowers up – blood-soaked and weeping pus –through a spider-web of obsidian. "But it's spreading…"

Laguna sighs. He's been leaning on his MP7 to support his dead-tired body, but he picks it up and raps the muzzle against the floor in impotent frustration. The tinny sound bounces around the chamber, and he almost laughs at how stupid it sounds. To be honest, he really doesn't know why he's still holding it. Maybe it's because a part of him figures that if those Cie'th whatevers decide to ambush them, at least he could throw it or something. Put off getting eaten or clubbed to death or crushed for a good five, ten seconds at least.

_Every little bit counts, Loire. _

Agitated, Laguna swings his weapon behind his neck. It's been two days since the bridge and Highwind's airless, endless, _useless _death. And over those two days, a couple of things have become pretty clear to him. First, that face and that voice scare the living _hell _out him, and if he sees or hears them one more time – on top of everything else – he's more than likely going to lose it. And second, well. They've apparently jumped from a steaming pile of bullshit straight into a steaming pile of horseshit.

"_Lindzei__…"_ Lightning rasps again. "_Lindzei__…_"

Laguna pushes his weapon into the back of his neck until he can feel the shape of the barrel indent his skin. _Hyne __and __Hyne__'__s __blind __mother_, he wishes she'd stop saying that word.

He'd chalked it up to grief, at first. The way Light'd gone so distant and silent – or more distant and silent than usual. It was Galbadian basic training _rule __numero __uno_, after all. In the face of weapons-grade trauma, don't think about it. Keep your eyes ahead, put one foot in front of the other, and keep the fuck going. Get a piece of friend-lung on your shoe while you're on your way? Just wipe it off and don't look down. And given what they'd just been through, who they'd just lost, he'd really thought that was all she was doing. It wasn't until Yuna'd forced the issue, literally backed her into a corner, unzipped her turtleneck and taken a look for herself, that they'd seen what was really happening, and then…well…He wishes he had a more delicate way of phrasing it.

_There __she __blew_, or so the saying goes.

She'd tried to control it at first, the way she did on the bridge. But there wasn't anything for her to lash out at, any place for her to put all that power. And the effort of trying to wrestle all it back down again had knocked her clear out. Well, _almost _clear out, if you didn't count the writhing, and the diseased clawing at the floor, and the warped, melted way she periodically gurgles _Lindzei _or _l__'__Cie _or _die__…_

It's the die part that bugs him the most. He'd rather no one else do that, if he can help it.

Orange torchlight licks at Lightning's contorted face and splinters it with steep, ugly shadow. Spit gathers in the corners of her mouth, and Laguna wonders how after twelve hours straight of this she's still moving. Heat comes off her in waves, fever-thick and sulfur-heavy.

Swallowing the fear that's coming up his throat, Laguna refuses to look away. It's eating her alive, this thing. Scooping out whatever of Light's left in there and filling up the husk with something so far off being human that Laguna knows – and the truth tears through him with ballistic force – that she'd rather him shoot her in the head right here than let it happen. It's something any soldier would ask. And whatever else it is Lightning's turning into, he knows that part of her won't die easy.

No question she'd want to go out her way. He knows Lightning well enough to know that.

A small pink tongue lolls out of slack pink lips, and Laguna feels cracks open up in his chest. He doesn't want to do this. He really doesn't want to do this. And yet…

"_You__'__d __**better**_." The unspoken command that echoes in his mind is in her voice. "_You __let __me __down __on __this, __Loire, __I __swear_…"

Laguna's hand starts shaking. And when he closes his fist over the grip of his MP7, it doesn't stop.

"Can we help her?" Laguna only asks the question because he needs to hear words, any words at all, even if he knows they won't help.

A moment flutters past, drifting on Yuna's frustrated sigh. She's barely moved since Light collapsed, and Laguna can see whole schools of little blue veins swim up under the thin skin beneath her eyes. Her hands move in nonsense patterns, pausing only briefly to push a tendril of hair off a sweaty brow or to press a limp, damp cloth over the swollen skin that welts around her brand.

They're lost, her hands. They don't know where to go.

"I'm _trying_," she replies. Her voice is heavy and drooping. "But I don't even know where to start. I – "

"Shhhh." Laguna doesn't let her finish. Setting his weapon flat across the floor, he closes his fingers over her shoulder. She's badly dehydrated, and beneath the pads of his fingers, he can feel the fragile line of her clavicle, the individual cords of her tendons. He tightens his grip. "Shhh..."

On the ground in front of them, Lightning's body twists and bends in unnatural positions, a caricature of somebody being possessed in a cheap horror film. Laguna'd chuckle at the sheer stupidity of it – _Hyne__'__s __sake, __she__'__s __even __doing __that __speaking __in __tongues __thing_ – except he can't. Because this is real, and that's his friend, and this will end with her dead, he's pretty sure.

Whether he's man enough to pull the trigger or not.

With snarling hands, Lightning tries to claw dents into an undentable granite floor, and her fingertips rip and tear.

_Fuck, __Light._ Laguna crushes Yuna's narrow shoulder in his hand, and it's more for him, this time, than her. _Don__'__t __make __me __do __this_.

"I don't know what to do," Yuna whispers. Her frame goes loose, and the agitated hands come to rest in her lap. Absently, she plucks at the bruised skin of her too-thin thighs, as if she's pulling the strings of her absent kimono. "She's in so much pain…"

"I know." The words are chewy and stupid and not enough. "I know."

Yuna sighs and leans forward to press the flat of her hand flush against Lightning's left breast. "She was right, you know." The green-blue eyes close, and delicate fingers curl over the brand like all she wants to do is rip it off. "It's a parasite. And every time she feels too much of anything – good or bad, I think – it spreads and sinks deeper. If I had some mana, or if the magic weren't so damp, maybe I could try and Slow it...or encase it in a Shell…I just…"

"It's okay," Laguna cuts her off again. There's no point. Talking about it isn't helping and they both know it. Without thinking, he lifts his hand from Yuna's shoulder and then closes it over the fist she's curled on Lightning's chest. He leaves it there for a long time.

It's warm where their hands meet, where living skin presses together. Under their interlocked fingers, Lightning twists and arches, a writhing snake.

_We__'__re __losing __her_. The thought's as certain as sunrise and just as clear. _She__'__s __already __gone_.

He knows he should ask Yuna for his revolver back. He knows they've run out of time. And yet, when he tries to force his lips over the question, he can't. And a part of him wonders if that makes him more of a traitor than poor Highwind ever was.

Laguna presses his eyelids together until the tension throbs in his temples. _There__'__s __any __justice_, he thinks, breathing through the grief that's shoved its fist down his throat, _they__'__re __in __some __cosmic __pissing __match __somewhere_.

He can almost see Kain smirk at him. He can definitely hear Light call him a moron.

After a few seconds opens his eyes to a burning tear-blur. Blinking the world back into sharpness, his hand trembles over Yuna's and she twines her fingers up through his until their hands are a knot he doesn't know how to undo.

"_You __always __know __what__'__s __right, __Uncle __Laguna_," comes the echo of the voice from the dreams, the bridge, the back corridors of his mind. "_You __just __don__'__t __do __it_…"

'_I __**can**__**'**__**t**__, __darlin_'. He can't believe he feels the need to justify himself to what he's really starting to think is a symptom of PTSD. _I__'__m __not __a __killer__…_

The voice makes no reply.

A broken-sounding sigh leaves Yuna's lips, and she lets him lift her hand from Lightning's burning skin. "I must be missing something," she says, pulling out of Laguna's grasp. "Lady Anima said the Lufenian's mage could bind it…That means there must be _something_ I can do…"

Rolling off the balls of his feet, Laguna takes a seat on the cold stone floor. His hand feels empty without Yuna's, so he fills it back up with the worn grip of his MP7. Rolling his sore thumb over the cratered ridge of the safety, he lets out a slow exhalation. _Feeds __on __emotion_…. He scrounges around in his brain for an alternative to shooting his friend in the head. _If __it __feeds __on __emotion_…

"Your dead lady," he starts, letting the thought roll halfway formed from his mind. "What'd she say exactly, about where this Lindzei thing gets its servants from?

"From the dark places in our minds…" Yuna's voice is quiet. He can tell she still blames herself for not seeing it earlier, and not for the first time, he wishes he could be that Tidus kid so he could take it away from her. "I can't believe I missed it, but the pyreflies, they're different here than in Spira. In Spira, they usually only shape the longing of the dead…"

"But then," he starts, tapping his finger against cratered steel. He's starting to see a pattern here, even if it is as faint and nonsensical as the fucked-up murals that paint the walls here. He looks back down at his gun, not wanting to look at any more faded images of civilians getting impaled on giant shards of crystal. "It's kinda the same, isn't it? Lindzei and the pyreflies and this thing that's eating Light. Well, minus the dead part, anyway."

Yuna drags her eyes from Lightning's twisted-up body and blinks, confused. "What do you mean, Sir Laguna?"

"How many times do I have to tell you, kiddo?" Laguna smiles a weak smile. Leaning over, he pushes a sticky lock of hair behind her ear and feels her cheek go warm before he pulls his hand away. "Plain Laguna's _just_ fine."

Yuna nods, and while she's not smiling back at him, her lips are pulled in something that's close enough. She inhales deeply. "I don't think I understand. Laguna."

"No worries." The smile twists to a smirk before fading away. He feels like he's on to something here, but he doesn't quite know what. "Don't think I understand, either. But let's just think it through together for a second. Those pyreflies feed on strong emotions, just like Light's little parasite, right?"

"Right."

"And whatever it is that branded her, it's related to this Lindzei thing. Like a niece or nephew or something." He stops to refine his muddled thinking. "Except it, you know, hates the shit out of her."

Yuna picks up the dirty cloth she'd abandoned and presses it to Lightning's forehead. "That's what Lady Anima said," she agrees, speaking slowly. "But I'm still not sure…"

"It doesn't matter." Laguna leans forward into the idea. "What matters is that Lindzei and this brand, they're enemies but they basically work the same way. They're attacking her – _and __us_," he corrects, "with our own ghosts. The brand from the inside. Those things Lindzei made out of the pyreflies from the outside."

"That's like this whole place, though. It turns our own thoughts against us," Yuna says quietly, grabbing the edge of his thought and pulling it into one of her own. "And like Dissidia, too. Even though we were fighting for Cosmos, we still only got our memories back through fighting. Through pain."

"Yeah." Laguna smirks. "Not really a good-guy move on her part."

By the way Yuna's spine goes bolt straight over Lightning's body, Laguna can tell that something he just said pulled something together for her. "But Cosmos was never a goddess of goodness, was she, Laguna?" she says, turning to face him. The dirt that smudges her pretty face doesn't hide the understanding he sees dawning there, and he lets himself hope that maybe he can get out of this with clean hands after all. He holds his breath. "Cosmos is the goddess of harmony," she continues. "Stillness. No emotions _at __all_…I wonder."

Before Laguna can figure out where she's going with that last part, Yuna's already taken off towards Lightning's pack. The tinny sounds of shifting scrap-metal garbage clink through the dusty air as she rummages around in there for something – and Laguna can guess what it is – that seems like one _hell_ of a long shot here…

When she races back towards him, she has Lightning's crystal in her hands.

Laguna arches a brow at her, almost understanding but not quite. "Not that I don't trust your dead lady about these rocks being special, but are you _sure_…?"

"No," she answers in a voice that reminds him so much of her for a second it's uncanny. She flashes him the smallest possible smile. "But I think, I think this might be the first step. Would you mind holding her still, please?"

Shaking his head, Laguna shimmies around Lightning's distorted body. Nothing's physically _wrong_ with her, but the angles she's arching into are getting less and less like a woman and more and more like a monster. She bites at him, and as he pushes her down, he tries not to look at the torn up insides of her mouth where she's chewed through half her lip. And as he bears his weight down over his arm, the only thought in his mind is that he hopes to Hyne this works, because if it doesn't, well.

If it doesn't, he's completely fucked. Muttering something under his breath, Laguna braces himself and tries not to think about how sick Light feels under his fingers. He's not a praying man, but he figures just this once couldn't hurt.

Chancing a look up from Lightning, he captures Yuna's eyes. Despite everything, they're bright with hope, and Laguna lets himself believe in whatever it is she sees with them. "Go on, then, kiddo," he says.

She nods.

Yuna's not casting a spell. She doesn't have mana left for spells, so instead she tries something a little more direct. She just unzips Lightning's turtleneck, pushes the fabric aside, and presses the lifeless stone flush against her brand.

"Wake up, Light," Laguna hears her say. "Please…"

Laguna's always surprised how things can change in just a second. He's a soldier by training, so it really shouldn't. He of all people should know that you don't get lead time for shit. And that sometimes one second everything's good and everyone's alive, and the next second, well. You're in hell.

And this, well, this is a hell moment. He sucks in his breath. Despite everything he'd been trying to avoid, this is absolutely a hell moment.

Everything happens at once. On contact, the silky black arrows of the thing on Lightning's breast twist and curl like they're being burned off. The red eye-shaped wart opens and releases the fermenting smell of rotting meat. And there's _hissing_, too. Not from Light's lips, but from the brand itself. It contracts and expands, first collapsing in on itself and then exploding in wriggly patterns all the way up her neck and face.

Without thinking, he grabs Yuna's hand and dances back. The crystal falls to the floor, and as it bounces against the stone it resonates a clear, perfect high-C that's just as beautiful as Lightning is suddenly, horrifyingly, heartbreakingly disgusting.

Her breast is like a nest of leaches, slimy red and roiling black. But it's her wide-open, alien eyes that scare him the most. And it's her eyes that tell him beyond all his stupid hopes that this didn't work, and the thing that's eating Light has basically hollowed her out so there's nothing left but a sick sack of flesh.

Clear azure irises sit in piss yellow rings. Catty pupils are fully dilated, and they pull both blue and vermillion into gaping black holes. _This __isn__'__t __Lightning_. But whatever it is, it tears at its own skin, it rolls on the ground, it smiles and won't stop.

"_You __shouldn__'__t __**do **__that_…" Lightning's crawled to her knees and brought them a hell of a whole lot closer to dead than they were five minutes ago. "_Don__'__t __**do **__that_…"

_Holy __shit_. He nearly retches on the floor, and he drops Yuna's hand like it's toxic. She's a pure thing, and he feels dirty touching her now, given what he's got to do. He steels himself, suddenly angry at his own weakness. Suddenly furious that he chose what was easy over what was right.

He doesn't have the memories to back it up, but he feels like he did that a lot, back in another life, back with her, back with…

No. _No._ _Not __now._The word burns his mind. _Ellone_. The girl's name. His _daughter__'__s_ name.

Laguna's free hand clenches, and he can feel the scabs on his knuckles split. He can't remember anything else about her, but just the memory of her name locks his resolve in place. Just because he chose wrong before, he thinks, doesn't mean he has to choose wrong again.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, and even though the words rip him open from skin to fucking spine, this time they flow easy. There's nothing stopping them. "Can I borrow back my revolver?"

* * *

><p>Tifa knows it's a little silly, and a little childish, but she's always liked candles. There's something about them that's so natural. The exact opposite of the mako lights in Midgar, she thinks the light they cast is playful and soft. It pours over the imperfect edges of ugly things and turns them pretty, at least for a little while.<p>

_There__'__s __room __for __the __illusion_, she thinks, resting her back against a warm cedar wall and giving her mind a break from horrible things.

The candles that ring all the way around the Captain's quarters of the _Falcon_ wear giant, waxy beards. Bouncy flames peer out from over them, and Tifa thinks that lined up and melted together the way they are, they look a bit like a bunch of grumpy old men, debating great matters. She laughs a bit at herself, but for some reason, sitting on the bed in front of them – his elbows resting on the points of his knees, and wrapped in layers and layers of white – Minwu looks...right. Like he'd be perfectly at home in a circle of wise men.

In the warm light, she can barely tell that the cloth he's holding to one of the curse-cuts on his left shoulder is soaked with blood. The only real clue is the limp silhouette of the fabric, the perfectly spherical black drops that bead at the ragged edge, then race down the articulate geography of tricep and forearm to paint the small bones on the back of his hand.

Sitting on the bench beside her, Vaan seems way less impressed than she is with the scenery. Shaking his leg in barely contained impatience, he looks a bit like he wants to bolt. "So, Minwu," he needles. "We going to do story time or what?"

Minwu smiles an impish smile. "Yes, young man. We are."

Tifa almost giggles when she sees Vaan's lips tighten. He hates it when people bring up how young he is. It's kinda fun to watch him squirm about it, actually. "You realize I'm not _that_ much younger than you, right?"

"Are you now?" Minwu asks, tipping a brow. "But perhaps that's something best left for later."

Scowling, Vaan fiddles with a loose string on his vest before speaking again. Tifa can tell he's swallowing a smart-mouthed reply. "So _you__'__re_ the one who taught Aerith how to talk in riddles, huh?"

Tifa doesn't even turn her head to smack him. She just waits for the satisfying, fleshy crack her hand makes on contact. "I'm sorry, Minwu," she says. "Please. Go on."

"No need to apologize." He addresses Vaan lightly. "You've a refreshing spirit."

"Thanks," Vaan replies with a dry smirk. "Now…?"

"Very well," Minwu replies, crossing his legs. He looks at them, and thin yellow candlelight spills over cobalt irises deep enough to drown in. It reminds Tifa of a fall sunset over the sea. Melancholy and distant and chill with coming winter.

"It was a love story, at first," he begins, pressing the cloth deeper into the wound. "They were very, very much in love, the Lufenian and Sarah. It was that, I think, that blinded them at first."

Vaan folds his knees to his nose and narrows his eyes. "Who's this stupid Lufenian everyone keeps talking about? And who's Sarah?"

"_Ah_. My apologies." Minwu gestures and a fat droplet of blood loosens itself from his fingertips and leaves red rose stains on crisp white linen. "I forget. The Lufenian I will tell you of now. Sarah…you know her – or her memories, at least, as Cosmos. She discarded her real name some time ago. She's forgotten it now, I believe."

"_Sarah_?" Tifa tests the word. It's such a pretty name, but for some reason it's cold on her lips. "She had another name…?"

"She had another _life_, Tifa Lockheart. Or the memories of one. Once upon a time, before coming to Dissidia, they were scientists in a world both like and not like your own. Although, perhaps of all the twelfth cycle's fallen warriors, you might understand the power of scientists the most, I think. Their pride and their genius. Their narrow, narrow eyes.

"Yes." He moves the cloth down over his arm, following a long, deep slash that digs into the insertion of his left bicep. "They were _both_ scientists. And both so brilliant their union was foretold at their birth by their tribe. The melding of two greatest minds of the Lufaine would produce the child that was prophesied…the so-called child of Light. It was a bright day, their wedding. Brighter by far than any the Lufaine would know for years."

Minwu pauses then, as if he expects interruption, as if he anticipates their confusion. But there's something in the way he speaks that makes her want to hold onto her questions and just listen. He's a story-teller, this mage. And it's easy to get lost between what he's saying and what she wants to believe.

That way of speaking, it reminds her of Cloud, a little. And a little of Raines, too, although she can't figure out why.

He continues.

"They were happy for a time. Happier, perhaps, than they had a right to be. They knew one another's minds and bodies, and under the eye of the state, they turned their brilliance to things they thought useful and true and good. Flying ships for the raising of trade; the refinement of mythril for the making of parts; crystal soldiers – forged ore they mined from a forbidden vein – crystal soldiers so no blood need be spilt.

"There was a war, of course, as there always is. And with the coming of war came the need to create weapons suitable to win it, or at least the carnage necessary to seize strategic advantage. To the side he was sworn to serve, the Lufenian was the public face of genius. But it was Sarah herself who knew the spells, who brought he you know as Chaos into being with the cells of her own body. She was, at the very _least_, an accessory to each and every murder that followed. And one could credibly argue she bore equal guilt for the crime."

"You realize I have no _idea _what you're talking about right?" Vaan interrupts, raising his eyes over the tops of his knees and picking at a loose thread on his slacks. Fragile stitches break, and the seam unrolls.

"Please forgive me." Minwu pauses for a moment to dip the cloth into a clear bowl of water that's sitting on a night-table beside the bed. Tifa watches, entranced, as the blood unfurls through the candlelit pool, red-silk sashes at dusk. "I jump ahead of myself. What I am saying – quite plainly – is that those you knew in Dissidia as gods were hardly that. At least they didn't start that way."

"So," Tifa asks, and she doesn't know why her voice sounds so small, even the tiny room. "What are they then?"

"Something less," Minwu responds without hesitation before he presses the cloth back to his arm. In the semi-darkness, Tifa can almost convince herself he's just performing ablutions, just getting ready to pray. "Something crueler and meaner and more selfish, though all gods are cruel in their way. The irony is that Chaos, whom you were bid to hate, was the victim from the start. He was created to be what he was. And he fought against the violence until his parents – or so they dared to call themselves – forced him to it. A more noble heart lies in the beast than you have been allowed to know, although one would hardly expect Sarah to share that with you. It would have harmed the integrity of the experiment…"

Tifa shakes her head, blinks. She doesn't get it. Or maybe she doesn't want to. "I still…I don't understand…"

"I am sorry. I forget that you know nothing. That you were kept very deliberately, very purposefully, stupid." He inhales through the pain before fixing them both with a heavy stare. "Your goddess Cosmos is a manikin with all the memories of a _human_woman. She and her husband created a demon child half to win a war and half to save the very reason for their marriage. You see, they could have no children of their own. The Lufenian's experiments with levistones made it impossible…the technology had damaged them both beyond repair. In this way was a prophesied child of flesh and blood sacrificed to a cold, unloving sky. To the unaccountable need of men to build ships of steel to sail the seas of the sun…

"It was hard on them. Their marriage lay on tenterhooks, waiting to come apart. So when the state offered them the chance to _build_ a child, they did so. And for a time, I suppose, they felt vindicated. Both the Lufenian and she thought it a better – more _true_ – child of theirs than she could have borne herself. It was a creation of her cells and their genius, after all. Even though he was distorted beyond redemption, they thought him beautiful. They never cared for the destruction he was bred for. He was _theirs_."

Vaan's not playing with the thread anymore. "So…Chaos is Cosmos's…experiment?"

"Hers and her husband's," Minwu corrects. "It is a stunningly human capacity, I think, to look on the grotesque and call it sublime. Particularly if the grotesquerie is one that was fashioned so carefully, so tenderly. Particularly if it can be viewed as a monument to a man's own greatness."

"You said though…" Tifa cuts in, the pieces still not connected in her mind. "You said Cosmos is a _manikin_. But isn't she just Sarah?"

"I did. Bear with me, please. I promise it will become clear." Minwu lays the cloth down for a second and presses a curing spell into his arm, and Tifa bites her lower lip as the skin seals up just to tear again. "As I say. The war killed on, consuming its dead. The child grew up, the pride of its parents' eyes. And eventually he was collected by the state that commissioned him and put to his intended use. But he could not be controlled without assistance. And since his vain and stupid parents had finally opened their eyes to the abomination they'd made – finally saw that the cities the child laid waste to held children of their own – they refused. A substitute Sarah was supplied in due course; a crystal doll in which the original's memories were lovingly and perfectly planted." Brushing strands of hair from his eyes, Minwu shakes his head. "A version that had few qualms about leading her son to crush the smallfolk of another land while they plowed their fields or slept in their beds or sang lullabies to their babes."

Minwu pauses for a moment and makes sure he's captured their full attention before speaking again. Slowly, so they hear every word. "And make no mistake, it is _this_ doll to whom you bent your knee in Order's Sanctuary. She is the one who awoke in Dissidia with the Lufenian when the child ripped a hole in the universe, seeking escape. Sarah, on the other hand…"

"_Sarah_…" Vaan prompts. His dusty grey eyes are sharp, focused.

Minwu winces. "Was shot before she could make away with her family. She did live – if living is what you could call it – for a time. Ruined and broken, she returned to her tribe and set her memories down as "records", told her story as she needed to remember it. Without guilt, without the wreckage her hand had wrought. An "ordinary mother" she called herself, as if speaking the words could make it true. She died eventually, alone with her lies."

Tifa feels hollow to her core. "But the war of the gods…the _cycles_…And if the Lufenian came with them…where'd he go?"

The laugh Minwu laughs sucks the warmth from the air. And through the obfuscating candlelight, Tifa finally notices that the curse-wounds are growing deeper and more imaginative, as if some invisible artist were using his arms and chest for a canvas, a scalpel for a brush. His cloth can't hold all the blood. The cure spells can't keep up.

"Where did he go, indeed?" Minwu continues after a while. "It was _he_ who brokered the deal with the devil himself. He – as blind and stupid as his wife – thought himself _used_ and wanted revenge above all things. So in exchange for power, he offered his own wife and son – Cosmos and Chaos, as you know them – to the Dragon of these skies. The bargain was that they were to summon souls from distant worlds to fight and die and fight and die. The Lufenian would have his time to study, to plot revenge, and the Dragon would feed on those that fell at the end of each cycle, grow stronger, crueler, tearing down his rivals – Her Providence included – here in the Rift. Indeed, it was the Lufenian himself that suggested a particular knight to summon, one who might encourage a reluctant Chaos to participate in the game. The child was, after all, somewhat reluctant to participate…"

Bending his head, Minwu waits a few quiet beats before going on. His eyes linger on the portholes above Tifa's head, on the ambiguous points of light that flicker in the glass. "It started as an exercise – to see if he could uses his discoveries to reopen the Rift and rain destruction on those he blamed for his own sins. After a time though, he grew tired of even his own hate. It became too human a thing for him to bear. His purposes here _evolved_, I guess you might say, to something different. Something he needed _me_ for – "

"_Wait_," Vaan's voice is whip-sharp when he interrupts, and Tifa can tell he's caught on to something she hasn't let herself believe yet. "You mean…?"

Minwu nods. "Yes, lad. The rules of the conflict permitted Cid of the Lufaine to summon a single soul of his own. Harmony and discord are of no concern to me. I am indentured to only him. And _he_," Minwu brushes a blood-soaked hand lazily over the sprawling wounds on his torso, "has his preference for where I should remain…"

Questions tumble out of Vaan's mouth, shouldering one another aside. "But _why_? And if that Dragon was supposed to eat us at the end of the cycle, what are we _doing_ here? And the others…and _Lindzei_…our crystals…?"

Putting her hand on Vaan's leg, Tifa waits until he runs out of steam before speaking herself. She wants to know the answer to all of Vaan's questions, she really, really does. But there's something else that's bothering her right now, something that's written in the set of Minwu's shoulders, in the distant look he harbors in those sad, oceanic eyes.

"But Minwu," she asks, voice soft and fingers curling over Vaan's boney knee. "How…how do you know all this?"

Cocking his head, Minwu lets his gaze descend from the window to rest on hers. "How long do you think your friends were in Dissidia, Tifa Lockheart?"

It's not Tifa's favorite thing, when people answer questions with questions. She thinks it's a little rude, actually, to deflect that way. Particularly since it puts her on the back foot and she doesn't like being there. But every once in a while, someone will do it, and it's _exactly_the right thing to say. Because it focuses all the possibilities in her mind, magnetizes them almost, until they converge into an answer she already knew.

"A long time?" Tifa prods the edges of the truth.

Wetting the cloth one more time, Minwu does not release her eyes. "A very, _very_ long time, Tifa. A hundred years and more. Of death and rebirth and consumption. Of remembrance and forgetting. That you are here now is her gift to you. She has her reasons for bestowing it, but still. It's a chance, perhaps, at a different outcome."

Bile rises in Tifa's throat. It tastes like betrayal. She'd thought…she'd thought Cosmos was so _nice_…"But you didn't answer…"

Minwu anticipates what she's about to say. And the smile he offers her before he speaks is barely there at all. "How I know?" He laughs. "Aerith and I have been watching the entire time. We've been awake the entire time."

For some time after Minwu's words fade, silence reclines in the candle-warm air. The room is claustrophobic with unvoiced questions, but Tifa can't bring herself to ask any of them. Slowly, she brings the hand that's sitting on Vaan's knee to her lips.

"Man," is all Vaan has the voice to say. Bright-eyed and tight-lipped, he just shakes his head. The candlelight dwells in his sandy hair, warm but uncaring.

Minwu seems almost amused by their sudden shock. A smile flirts with the corners of his mouth, and it looks like he's about to say something when he doubles over instead, whatever he's about to say drowned in a low, deep moan. At first, Tifa thinks he's just reacting to the wounds on his chest, but then she realizes he's not moving. He's not moving and he's breathing strange and the sounds that are coming out of his mouth sound suspiciously like _no_, and _not __**now **__fools_, and _Aerith,_ and Lightning…

Lightning?

Tifa and Vaan's eyes swing from Minwu to each other, and they're both on their feet at once.

When Minwu raises his head, rage lights the depths of his eyes, swirls black into endless blue. "Turn this ship around."

"But – " Tifa's rushed to the bed and crouched at his side before he can finish speaking. "You're weak – "

"It's no matter. None of this will matter if…" Minwu trails off, and the cloth he's been clutching flutters to the ground. Dark and burning, Minwu's eyes sear through the words that follow. "You wanted your chance to save your friends, boy?" The question's a challenge and a command. Pushing Tifa away, he extends his hand to Vaan. "Then _take_ it. Help me up. Turn this ship around."

The second that Vaan just stands there is enough for Tifa to see all kinds of emotions play with the lines of his face. Concern and indignation cross swords in his expression until he just blinks, considers, _decides_.

"Okay," he says, stepping forward. And for the first time since meeting up with Aerith and Minwu, Tifa hears no trace of distrust in his voice. Wordlessly, Vaan grabs the hand outstretched to him, helps Minwu struggle to his feet, and leads them back out to the deck.

Alone in the captain's quarters for a second, Tifa just stays where she is, kneeling. She takes a long, deep breath before noticing that Minwu's abandoned his cloth near the foot of the bed. _He __might __need __it_, she thinks, and the thought's so ordinary and weightless compared to everything else that's sitting on her mind, she bends down to pick it up automatically.

It's then that she sees it. There, some distance under the bed, radiant with the small fires of candlelight, is Vaan's crystal ring.

_What_?

Something shifts in Tifa's stomach, then. And without warning, it becomes one of those moments where things go from being alright to being not really alright at all.

_Minwu __must __have __found __it_…

"_Teefs.__"_ She hears Vaan's voice from the deck cut back into the Captain's Quarters and through her thoughts. "_Hurry __**up**_."

Not knowing what to think, Tifa just acts. Snatching the ring, she jams it into her pocket before sprinting out the door.

* * *

><p>Racing back towards the ruins in the palm of the Menhirrim, Aerith Gainsborough shrieks. She shrieks, and she falls to a fetal position, and she's certain that when she pulls away the hands she's pressed to her ears, they'll be stained with blood and dull, waxy fluid.<p>

_Make __it __**stop**_, she wants to say, but can't because _that __**sound**_. It's just…overwhelming. It's compressing her eardrum and shaking her sinuses and twisting through her optic nerve. It paralyzes the muscles in her tongue, so although she knows a scream is lifting from her vocal chords, she can't form it into words. It escapes her mouth in a babyish wail that scratches the inside of her skull .

The pain is like a nail through the roof of her mouth. It spikes her eyes wide open.

_Make it stop, make it stop, make it **stop**._

All she can sense is the mossy-soft palm of the Menhirrm's hand as it curls protectively around her. It feels cool and smooth and tender. She rolls around in it, tries to focus on the way the damp stone cools her searing nerves, but the comfort's only skin deep.

Please. She's still screeching and thrashing and the rabid pain just keeps on ripping her up. The thin skin at corners of her mouth is splitting; she can feel it coming apart.

_Please. _

Aerith knows what's happening. It's what they were afraid of, she and Minwu. _Lightning_, she thinks, _has __torn __through __the __Lufenian__'__s __veil__. __Etro__'__s __champion __rises._

They used Cosmos' crystal without knowing…and now Lindzei is _screaming_. It's happening just as Ellone warned. There's no time left. If she doesn't find them and find them _now_, then every single chance they have is gone.

Aerith has no idea how she forces her mouth closed. She has even less of an idea how she manages to crawl to her knees. Her entire field of vision is blurry and incoherent, but she focuses on standing. If she can just stand, something inside her mind tells her she can get control of it. She can ask the tides of the Lifestream to close her ears to it, to push the scream away.

Her fingers are trembling as she tries to pull herself up, but the Menhirrim bends its massive thumb and lends her its strength. It won't let her fall. It never has. But then again, it has its own scores to settle with Pulse and Lindzei, with Her Providence herself.

_It __was __such __a__…__delicate __balance_…Aerith's mind forages through the pain. _Shattered __now_. Careless. They were always so _careless_, Cosmos and the Lufenian. They never did understand all the games they were playing…when Lightning was summoned in the first place…

She shudders, pushing short, quick exhalations from her nose. The past doesn't matter. The pain doesn't matter. She just has to get to them.

The screeching in her mind persists, high and wild with rage or sorrow.

Aerith can taste it – the salty sweat that's sealed her top and bottom lip – as she leverages her weight against the stone and tries to pull herself upright. The muscles in her body are jelly, her bones water, but she wills her synapses to fire anyway. A part of her is surprised that they do, actually. That her knees bend, and the muscles in her thighs obey her, and that before she knows it, she's on her feet.

_Well._ The thought lurches through muck. _What __do __you __know_? Her smile feels like dough on her face.

Once she has her legs beneath her, the rest isn't really that hard. The Lifestream is there, like it always is, hiding between and among the atoms of the Rift. She always hears it chirping in her ears, telling her things about home, and how it misses her and to come back to it, please, soon, because she's been gone way too long. 'Things are green-and-breathing now', it says, in Midgar. 'The sky is safe-now-from-tears.'

_Soon_, she reassures it. _It __won__'__t __be __long __now. __But __if __you __wouldn__'__t __mind__…_

The Lifestream knows what she's asking it to do. And as it will until the day her essence truly does fade away, it listens to her, protects her, keeps her safe from harm, even if it is angry at her a little, for what she did. For what she had to do. 'Because you are the last-of-the-Bright-Ones', it mutters. 'This was how they fell, how they lost-the-Way…'

Aerith knows. But she still wouldn't take it back. She's just as human as she is Cetra. Probably more. It's taken her a long time to realize that.

As the Lifestrem does its work, sweet silence rushes into her ears, smothering the voices of gods. The screws of pain in her face loosen, and the taste of oxygen is both nourishing and vile, because she knows she can ask the Lifesteam to do this for her, but Minwu..._Minwu_…

Every native creature of the Rift can hear this. And he's defenseless…Worry nestles into the hollow of her throat but she doesn't let it fester there. She needs to do this for him, too, now.

The Menhirrm whispers something in its soft, alien tongue into the corners of her mind, yanking her back to here and now. Its language is still so strange to her, but she still knows exactly what it's trying to say, what it's trying to warn her of.

"I know," she responds out loud because she needs to change the sound in her ears. Looking up at its face, she sees its craggy lion brows crease. "I _know_ it's happening."

It rumbles again, this time more concerned.

"It doesn't matter that you can't get me there fast enough." She pets its hand. "You know I can take the shortcuts."

The statute looks indignant, its face crumpling into an expression that reminds her of the grumpy old men in her church. The ones who shook their canes at her every time she walked back through Sector 5 alone, and 'Oh-young-ladied' her until she had just the tiniest urge to upend her flower basket over their heads.

"I'll be fine," she chides. Not even Cloud was this bad, and the absolute last thing she has time for is an argument with an overprotective statue. "It didn't hurt Tifa and she didn't even know what she was doing. Besides, She's distracted. She won't be able to tell. Now go. Look after Minwu for me, please."

Taking a running start, Aerith ignores the chagrined retort of the Menhirrim, races to the edge of the crumbly granite palm, and jumps.

Wet wind washes her raw nerves as she falls, tingling over her skin like the grey-cold spray of the sea. And when Linzei's Gate of Song swallows her, it swallows her whole.

* * *

><p>Yuna survives her life on certain articles of faith.<p>

Chief among them is that suffering is a meaningless thing, and that it – much like joy or any other emotion – is an illusion. By necessity, it ripples the face of a pool but leaves the sturdy tides below untouched. As a Summoner of Spira, she may find beauty in the way the small waves fold themselves back to glass, but she must always know that true strength lies in the immutable truth that swims below.

People are born, they live, and they die. The most sacred duty of a Summoner isn't to summon, but to Send.

_This __is __how __a __Summoner __walks __on __water_. She remembers the teaching clearly. _By __finding __the __weight __in __the __currents, __refusing __to __sink __when __the __surface __demands._

If left Unsent, the restless dead become fiends. And Lightning, Yuna knows beyond doubt, is almost dead, if she isn't already. Her soul feels…not there. Yellow-black eyes crater her face. And the smile she's smiling is wet and deranged.

"_Shouldn__'__t __have __**done **__that_…" she taunts in a serpent's hiss. Dark red blood sloshes between gums and lower lip. It leaves splash patterns on her white teeth, and as she speaks, it mixes with drool and melts into the psychotic black that crawls over her face. "_Rats __and __slaves_…"

_It__'__s __no __different __than __a __Sending_, Yuna tries to tell herself as Lightning staggers and then falls to her d knees, weak as any newborn fiend. In a sense, she should be the one pulling the trigger, right now, before it's too late. She should be raising her staff, getting ready to say goodbye.

It's difficult for her to understand, then, why Laguna's question tears through her the way it does. Why her first instinct isn't to nod and accept and hand over the gun like she knows Light would want – no _demand_ – but to grab the grip of the pistol and dance back, whisper…

"_No_." The word barges over her lips before she can stop it.

The resolve in Laguna's eyes as they dart back and forth between her and Lightning goes up like a wall behind clear, green eyes. Beneath blood and crystal-stiff strands of rose hair, Lightning's defiled face twists; cruel, grotesque, insane. Laguna shudders, and Yuna can tell he's already made his choice. "Darlin'," he says, and the hand he curls around her upper arm is rough with callouses, but gentle still, as gentle as he always is. "She gets up, it's over. You've gotta give me my gun back."

"We _can__'__t_." Yuna shakes her head, her own choice coming together in the back of her mind. A choice that coalesces from such beloved fragments: the brightness of his smile, the warmth of his hand in hers, what he made her see. _Live, __Yuna_…"There's got to be another way. Laguna – "

"_Yuna_." The voice that says her name doesn't seem to belong to Laguna. It's hoarse and serious, and low, like he's pulling the word from his stomach, or digging it out of his bones. "There _isn__'__t_. She's dead. And we're going with her if we don't do this _right __now_."

Amber torchlight wilts over Lightning as she struggles to stand. She sneers, and there's something in the pull of her lips that's malignant like nothing Yuna's ever seen. It frightens her more than the blood, more than the thin shreds of skin Lightning's torn from her own arms, more than the red, blinking wart that glares from her breast as she crawls towards them.

It molds over her face, and Yuna is reminded only of rotting things.

"_We __will __kill __you_," Lightning says, and Yuna can smell the rankness of her breath from where she stands. "_We __will __kill __you __for __harming __us_..."

Yuna shudders and looks away, but she's not ready to give up. "The crystal hurt it." She tries to pull out of Laguna's grasp but can't. "She's still weak. If I try again, I'm sure she can – "

"Sorry, kiddo," Laguna apologizes, releasing her arm. His voice cracks when he speaks again and his eyes go sad and tired. "Not letting you die today." The smile he offers her is slack and unconvincing. "You don't have to forgive me. Promise."

"_But_…"

It's the sudden lightness at her obi that tells her what Laguna's done; the sudden lightness and the way her tender skin rushes to fill the empty indentation where the revolver was pressed to her stomach. Too late, her hand tries to stop his, but for all his wonderful laughter, all his lightness and his joy, Laguna Loire's been a soldier for a long, long time. He doesn't get outdrawn unless he wants to.

Today, he doesn't want to.

_No_. She blinks, looks from the decaying yellow sash to Laguna's cracked hand. The safety's back already. The chamber spins for a half second more before locking in place.

She doesn't have anything to say. Shock pushes everything down other than the simplest of pleas. "Laguna…" she implores, scrambling forward to press ger cracked palm against the muzzle of the gun. The steel circle presses into her skin, cold and leaden.

Looking back at her, Laguna's face is naked regret. He tries to hide his expression in a veil of knotted hair, but it doesn't work.

"_Get __**behind **__me__,__"_ is all he says in response. He's not negotiating. The weapon pulls away. "And don't look."

There's a moment where Yuna doesn't know what's happening. Her mind detects only pieces of the world around her, as if her perception has come apart and she can only sense things one at a time. The crack of a gun going off. Crazed, dead-sounding female laughter. Carbon that scorches her nostrils and smells like metal and smoke. An arm that's pushed back by recoil again and again and again; that's firing again, again, again.

He aims straight for her face and doesn't blink.

Lightning's shrieks split her skull.

Sealing her eyes, Yuna closes herself to what's happening and makes herself think of the water. Her horror approaches and recedes; rises then collapses to stillness. Breathing in deep, as they taught her, she makes a space for the grief to first blossom, then dissolve until her only other thought is that she's glad Sir Kain isn't here to see this.

It isn't until a split second later that she realizes that something isn't quite right. While gunfire still echoes against her ears, the sounds aren't the squish-and-shatter noises of bullets tearing skin and breaking bone anymore. They're ricocheting off magic that's firm and sturdy and impervious to steel. At first, she thinks it's Lightning – that she's finally reached full strength – but the spell doesn't feel alien or sick, like her magic always does. It's swift and clean land cool. Autumn wind that carries the scent of fresh-cut grass.

_What_? Yuna's eyes sail open. And what she sees is the last thing in her life she expects.

Standing right in front of them, wedged between Laguna's gun and Lightning's bullet-ridden body, is the slip of a white mage that Yuna's seen only once or twice before, in the shadowed gateways of a ruined world. Lifted by the captive storm of the magic, the strands of chestnut hair that escape her braid lash at her pretty, straining face. Her bare, angled arms are raised in casting. And pulsing from the palm of her china-doll hand is a Shield so dense the bullets bounce off it like little rubber balls against the floor.

Laguna drops both his gun and his jaw. And for a second, the the thick and dumbstruck silence is broken only by Lightning's wounded hissing..

"Um, hi," he says eventually, scratching his head. Yuna can tell he's talking just to convince himself he hasn't lost his mind. And honestly, she can't blame him.

"Hi yourself," Aerith Gainsborough answers, a touch of smile lingering at the edge of her lips. "Need some help?"

The splashing sounds of Lightning crawling through her own blood interrupt them. "_It__'__s __too __late_…" her scratched voice whispers. "_Too __late_…"

"Oh, will you just please shut up," Aerith mutters, swapping the bright green Shield for a dark, electric fistful of magic that Yuna can tell is some version of Sleep. It gathers in her miniature hand for just a split second before she pivots on her heel and slams it right into Lightning's heaving chest.

Lightning crumples to the ground. And the sound she makes when she does so is the closest that Yuna's heard her sound to human in what seems like forever.

There's no helping the sigh of relief that slips from her mouth. "...Aerith," she finally says in a trembling voice. "How did you – "

"Later." Kneeling, Aerith pulls a small, dented bottle of ether from the leather satchel at her hip and places it on the ground. Her hands fly over Lightning's body with expert, anticipatory grace: testing the temperature of flushed skin, prodding the parasite arrows that nest and burrow in the valley between her breasts, pouring slick Curagas deep into the burnt bullet-holes that bore through her chest and face. "I promise _everything_ later Yuna. But please come here first. I need you."

Yuna obeys without thinking. Stepping out from behind Laguna, she skids to the ground beside them. The thin skin of her knees rips and tears, but she doesn't care. They're just more wounds. Grabbing the ether from the floor, she gulps it down in a single draught and feels the magic open up in her blood. "What can I do?" she asks, the liquid still gooey on her tongue. .

"I need her crystal," Aerith answers, not looking up from her work.

The snap of Aerith's order pulls Laguna from the daze he's been in. "Now you just wait one second there." Racing towards them, he intercepts Yuna's hand and snatches the crystal from the ground before crouching beside them. "Last time we used this thing, it didn't work out so well."

A white-gold spell Yuna can't recognize snakes over Aerith's tiny hand, and it charges every ion in the atmosphere until the air shivers and distorts; a cold mirage . With a swift, sewing motion, she weaves it into the honeycombed chambers of the bleeding red wart, then retreats sharply as Lightning's spine arches clear off the ground. "You did more than you think," she replies. "You _frightened_ it. I need to _kill_ it. Or at least slow it down."

"What do you mean, _it_?" Laguna's voice isn't as shaky as his hand, which doesn't stop trembling until Yuna reaches out and folds it into her own. His skin is dry and crusted with grease and dirt.

Sighing deeply, Aerith looks up, and the green of her eyes is supernatural, like the green of white magic itself. "You don't understand. Lightning's not a natural mage. Her magic isn't part of her." Aerith explains through tight lips. Her face is drawn, distant. "It's a parasite - one of Pulse's insane children buried in her soul. It's got a life of its own, and now that Lindzei's coming – "

"It's spreading," Yuna finishes.

Aerith clicks her tongue to the top of her mouth. "Not spreading, _focusing_," she corrects. "The brand decides, that's what's so sick about it. And Cosmos _knew_…I _told_ her this was a mistake…" She shakes her head, and the massive braid bobs limply. "We don't have time. There's a way to stop it, the same way she did. But I need that crystal, _now_."

Beneath her fingers, Yuna feels Laguna strangle the stone just for a second before the tension drains out of his body completely. She can feel him let go of his decision. She can feel him change his mind. She squeezes the split knuckles. "All you, then, darlin'," he whispers to Yuna, turning the crystal around in his hand and pressing it into her palm.

"Thank you," she says, smiling up at him. She tries to put everything she can into that smile. Forgiveness, acceptance, _I __know_, anything she can to tell him she understands.

She doesn't know why the deflated smile he sends back to her nearly breaks her heart.

"Okay, Yuna." Pulling her attention back down to Lightning's comatose form, Aerith's voice snaps with command. She extends a slender arm. "Give me your hand."

Nodding, Yuna does as she's asked. "But what…what are we doing?"

"You'll see," Aerith whispers, already gathering a spell that Yuna can feel flow over their interlaced fingers, through the pores of their pressed-together skin. "Just follow my lead."

Closing her eyes, Yuna just exhales, gives in to the sweet magic that plumps her blood with oxygen, unlocks her nerves with liquid light. It's different each time, sharing power with another mage. If the other person isn't skilled enough, the spells reject each other, and the body reacts like it's fighting infection, with nausea, fever, chills. But Aerith is magnificent – her magic _sings_ – and their power comes together like water in a gathering wave, or a wind in a storm in the the sky.

It meets itself, grows stronger, becomes everything it's meant to be. Yuna's astonished, and when she opens her eyes, she's not surprised their skin's shimmering and, resplendent, bright white that's defeated deep layers of grime

_You __cast __with __grace_. Aerith nods, and Yuna's surprised she can hear her voice in her mind.

_Thank __you_. Yuna sends the thought back, honored and a little confused.

After the initial rush of power recedes, Yuna can feel the magic narrow and refine itself, take the shape of a familiar spell. Slowga, she can feel it, but the way Aerith's using it is like nothing Yuna's known. They're casting deep in Lightning's nerves, shutting them down one by one and starving the creature that feeds on her pain. Closing her eyes again, Yuna can almost see the bundled silk neurons, glistening with electricity that Aerith's spell dulls with clinical precision. After a time, the light goes dim, and the parasite starts to scream.

_Look __closer_, whispers Aerith over her thoughts.

There's an electrical storm in Lightning's mind. With Aerith's help, Yuna can see it clearly now, and her chest goes tight and sore. It's so sad in there. Filled with grief and longing: dead parents and lost sister, the soldiers she killed by the score. Sir Kain's there too, and his airless death replays in a loop. She can tell Light wants to say sorry, but she doesn't know where to start. So the feeling wanders, lost and fractured, along with everything else they couldn't say.

Her breath catches in her throat as Yuna finally understands what Lightning's brand does to her. It eats her soul to fuel its own hate. Power from destruction, it burns her away, piece by piece. But it can't feed unless there's something to consume, and now, they're turning it off.

It panics. It panics and Yuna can feel it scream and twist in Lightning's blood.

_Now_, Aerith commands.

Yuna's not sure how she knows what to do, but she does. It's a simple spell, really, a Summoner's first words. _Call __out __to __the __mind __of __the __Fayth. __Ask __for __them __by __name_. It's not that different, she thinks, to call out to a person. It's easier, in fact.

_Claire_, Yuna whispers into the darkness. _Please __come __back_.

Both Yuna and Aerith feel it at once, the surge of will that rushes up from Lightning's mind. It knocks them both back, and Yuna barely has time to let go of the crystal in her hand before superheated magic starts spilling from its ragged facets, splitting the ratty orange glow with clean shafts of luminous bright. Torn rags of sunshine, they dawn through the darkened chamber and light up eloquent ruin: shattered pillars and rusted tin soldiers, the smudgy murals that prophecy the end of a world.

In the corner of her mind, Yuna can hear Laguna's swift intake of breath, feel him rush up beside her. She knows she doesn't need protection, but the arm that presses her body into the shelter of his chest is kind and strong, and she clings to it a without thought or reservation.

He's shaking, and after a while, she realizes the embrace is more for him than her.

"Yuna," he whispers, pulls her tighter and tangles his hand in her hair.

When the magic clears, there's only quiet. Eventually Yuna unties herself from Laguna, and crawls back over to where Lightning's body lies still and sacrificial on the cold stone floor. Her skin is white again; her breathing even and regular. And when Yuna pushes back the destroyed fabric of her turtleneck - it nearly comes apart in her hand - her brand…her brand…

Isn't bleached-out. Isn't static. But it's white at the edges, and the warted red eye is closed and sleeping.

_She__'__s __alive_. Yuna doesn't want to tremble. Summoners don't tremble. Braska's daughter doesn't tremble. But right now, she can't control it so well, and she has to clench her fist against the urge.

"Holy shit." Laguna's hand comes to her shoulder, and his voice is as ragged as she feels. "There some reason that didn't work the last time?"

Aerith's hunched over Lightning's body, and her narrow shoulders heave with the effort of breathing. "The crystals," she starts, pushing herself up on wobbly legs that nearly give out beneath her, "can only be used by the people to whom they're freely given. Last time, you used it. This time, she did."

Yuna's mind is wheeling. "But _why_ –"

"But why not?" Aerith interrupts, a soft smile nudging her lips. "She's changed her fate before."

Laguna doesn't say anything, he just slips his hand off of Yuna's shoulder and comes to kneel beside Lightning himself. He looks down at her, and doesn't look up the next time he speaks. "So what now?" he asks. He reaches out to touch her but his hand doesn't quite make it to her face.

Steadying herself on a wall, Aerith closes her eyes. "We get out of here. Right now, before the Undying come." She breathes in hard, and Yuna finally notices how much pain she's in, how hard she has to work to move. "I came through one of the shortcuts. It's not perfect, but we don't have time to get out the other way."

"A shortcut?" Laguna's voice is so incredulous, Yuna almost laughs. "Just so you know, I'm not so great with shortcuts."

Aerith puts her hand to her head and rubs her temple before opening her eyes again. "Don't worry about it," she says, walking a few steps forward and pressing her hand against a pillar. "I'll take the lead."

At the touch, somewhere in the back of her mind, Yuna thinks she hears singing. A green light suffuses the air, and the ghostly outline of what looks like a window takes shape in the air. For a second, everything's warped, but as shapes begin to emerge in the distortion, Yuna starts to see patterns it's dangerous to believe. Billowing sails. The slender lines of a swift-sailing ship. And on its deck, two silhouettes, two unmistakable, grainy-edged silhouettes she was beginning to think she'd never see ever again. Her hand comes to her mouth.

Beloved names rise in her throat. She wants to call out to them, but the sound of Aerith's sharp intake of breath stills her lips..

"The _Falcon_. Minwu…" Aerith breathes, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh no…We have to go. Get Lightning, we have to go _now_."

"But Aerith, what's the ma – " Yuna starts.

"_Hurry_," Aerith interrupts her, rushing back to Laguna. Her hands glow with Curaga, and before Yuna can ask another question, she's pouring the spells into his left arm. They're so powerful, Yuna can feel them from across the chamber. "Come on, pick her up."

More deliberately than Yuna's ever seen him move, Laguna tests the mobility in the fingers of his left hand. Then he nods, pushes aside his half-rotted sling and gathers Lightning's boneless body up into his arms. For a second, her bird-boned hands uncurl in the pool of blood that's gathered on the floor, but Laguna just adjusts her against his chest until her face lies soft and untroubled in the hollow of his neck.

She breathes, steadily and softly.

Rising to his feet, Laguna doesn't say a word. Face obscured by sooty shadow, he just stands there holding her like she's the most fragile thing in the universe. Yuna's out of words to offer, so instead she just walks up beside them and pushes a lock of rose hair from Lightning's face. Her eyes meet Laguna's, and for a second, they just stare.

"She's lighter than I thought she'd be," he says eventually, hoarse. "Way lighter."

Sympathy loosens Aerith's expression. And even though Yuna knows that all she wants to do is rush through the portal, she waits patiently. Lets them grieve. "She'll be fine, guys," Aerith says after a moment. "I know she'll be fine."

Laguna clears his throat and straightens his spine. "Of course she will," he answers. Addressing Lightning, he smiles. "Death doesn't look good on you anyway, darlin'. My bad."

He walks ahead of them through the gate and doesn't look back.

* * *

><p>In the grey space between dreaming and awake, Lightning Farron feels warm. She can't quite wrap her soppy mind around anything else, but she knows that for the first time in what feels like a thousand years, she's neither too cold, nor too hot. The air that rests against her stinging skin is perfect, and the only thought she can scrounge together is that this is nice, and she would like to stay here, for a little while.<p>

The smell of melted wax curls through her nostrils, at one with the sharp spice of cedar. Without reason, she remembers the taste of sugar, the feel of a burning hot shower.

"_I think she's waking up, guys."_

"_Well then be **quiet**, Teefs. You know how she is when someone wakes her up."_

Everything's dark and soft, wherever she is. Vaguely human voices seem to bubble in the background, but she ignores them, easily. It's the whirring white noise she wants to focuses on. It at least, doesn't scare her, doesn't annoy her, doesn't make her want to cry her eyes to redness or kill until the feelings are gone. She'd like to figure out what it is but she can't really place it. If anything, it sounds like the low, calming thrum of an engine. The sound of going on a trip. An airship hitting the atmosphere on its way to someplace else; someplace free and tearless. Unscarred, unbroken, fresh with no mistakes

"_Can__'__t __put __off __the __inevitable, __buddy. __And __I__'__d __step __away __from __the __bed __if __I __were __you.__ '__Cause __if __she __heard __that __you__'__re __in __for __a __world __of __hurt.__" _

"_She'll be too tired for that, I think. She's been through a lot." _

Lightning feels like something horrible's happened to her, but her mind won't open up over the details. Like fragments of shattered nightmare, fear sneers through her mind, ambiguous and hollow. She thinks she could probably try and remember it, but she doesn't want to. It's not a thing she wants to remember right now, cradled as she is in someplace safe and clean-smelling and kind..

"_I dunno. I think she'd have to be pretty close to dead to pass up smacking Laguna."_

"_Hey. Why are we were talking about **me **all of a sudden? I'm standing over **here**…" _

Dead… As Lightning's mind crawls closer to consciousness, it dawns on her that the voice that just said that might be onto something. Because the last place she remembers being had nothing to do with free or sweet any other comforting thing. Although if she's dead, she reasons, her logic pliant and self-contradictory, would that mean that death's an airship?

_With __a __lot __of __people __on __it_, she concludes, dry. _People __who __talk __too __much._

It seems just idiotic enough to be true. But then again, if she's dead, why does her back hurt so much, and this hell-spawned _headache__._..

"_She __really __is __waking __up! __Oh, __good.__"_

Lightning's eyelids are so heavy, she struggles to pull them open. The flesh is rubbery and unresponsive and she almost wants to give up. Except something stops her. Except there's something so familiar in the last voice she heard that it slits the fog weighing on her mind.

Her dry mouth chews sharp-sounding consonant, and she searches for a name that wanders lost among other almost-there names. Her sharpening mind recollects a whirl of midnight hair, a self-deprecating smile, a killer roundhouse kick and…

"Tifa?" she croaks. Lightning's lashes part and the world rushes in. Candlelight-glowing and impossibly small and cozy, the room's filled with the silhouettes and features of…_no...no__…__Not __fucking __possible_…

Confused, her hands go frantic for the edge of the bed. Her stomach drops like it's falling – like she's falling – but she isn't. "What – "

The answer to her question comes in a directionless tangle of arms. Tender-strong biceps close around her, and before Lightning has her mind around the fact she's even still alive, she's caught in an invincible embrace. It yanks the breath from her lungs.

"_Light_," Tifa says softly into her hair. "I thought we'd never see you again."

The single arm Lightning wraps around Tifa's back searches for signs that this isn't real. It tests the curve of a spine, the softness of thick hair, the threadbare cloth of her tank-top. And despite the warmth of the breath on her neck and the sticky wetness that falls from Tifa's cheeks to her shoulder, she still can't believe.

Her breath gets lost in her lungs. Glass-brittle logic shatters against the hard evidence of Tifa's muscles_. __But __it __doesn__'__t __make __any __sense._

She'd thought they were dead. Hell, she'd already written them off as dead.

And yet – her eyes dart out over Tifa's shoulder to Vaan's filthy face, Yuna's ratty kimono and Laguna's tired, kind eyes – _there __they __are_. There they _all_ are. _Well, __all __except __one_.

Grief presses down on her stomach, swift and burning. She sucks in an audible breath and waits for the wave to pass over the space he's left behind.

"It's okay, Light." Blinking, Lightning fastens her eyes on Vaan. The smile on his face is bright with relief. "We all know you missed me. You can just come out and say it."

"You _little_ – " Lightning threatens but doesn't mean it. She hides her expression in Tifa's hair.

"Hey, now," Laguna cuts in, and Lightning can't help but notice he's got both arms to spare. He winks. "Don't over-exert yourself. I promise I'll hold him down for you later."

Loosening her grip, Tifa lets Lightning scramble back into the heaping sheets of the bed. In the candlelight, her ruby eyes are nuanced and unguarded; complex and clear as day. What she says next she whispers, and her voice is secret-soft. "You okay, Light?"

It's such a simple question, but Lighting's mind is still so foggy and slow she just doesn't know what to say. Seeking the answer, her hand comes to her left breast and prods the tender flesh. Her fingers search for clotty scabs, but as she traces the gentle swell, all she finds is a landscape of calm, unblemished skin. Uninterrupted and human, it's not threatening or hard or obscene.

The air sits still between them. It waits for her reply.

"I will be," she replies, closing her eyes. Her hand doesn't lift from her skin. "Yeah, Tifa, I will be."

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER:<strong> A quiet night on the Falcon reveals more that it should – about the party, the Rift, and the gods that call it home. Meanwhile, somewhere between two worlds, a man in strange armor waits to pass judgement, and the justice he doles out is more fitting than he knows.


	8. CVI: A Glimpse of the Distant Somewhere

Chapter VI: A Glimpse of the Distant Somewhere

**Thanks: **To Distant Glory, who reads everything, over and over again, until it's better.  
><strong>Shout-OUT:<strong> To Uprgreyyed and Koneko and C.D. all the others who favorite me. And to fandom friends who know who they are and keep me going with kind words and pretty pictures.  
><strong>Warning: <strong>Mature themes. Adults are adults. Proceed accordingly.

* * *

><p>"<em>And the air was full of Thoughts and Things to Say. But at times like these, only the Small Things are ever said. Big Things lurk unsaid inside<em>."

- Arundhati Roy, _The God of Small Things_

* * *

><p>Anima's aware that her existence has been very long, very difficult, very strange. In another time, she would have said that she lived an in-between sort of life, one that flickered between worlds and roles, indecisive. <em>Mother-wife; Aeon-Fayth; Guado-Human. <em>Yes, in another time, she supposes, she would have described her life as…peculiar. But she doesn't believe that _life_ is quite the right word for what's happening to her now.

It's something else, she thinks. She doesn't have a name for it, but _life…_no. That doesn't work. Around the edges of its own meaning, it falters and stumbles, crude and imprecise. _Insufficient._

The iridescent crystal of the Last Floor is cold beneath the decomposing meat of her thighs, and when Anima looks up, she can see the souls in congress around Her Providence's door. When they are rested enough, content enough, she is not required to herd them. She is granted leave to simply watch. Amongst wild constellations of pyreflies they wait – golden as an autumn morning and just as irrelevant – to receive what benediction the Goddess has to bestow.

Beauty is not a thing that Anima appreciated much in her time as a woman. She was pragmatic, she remembers, unsentimental. When her son screeched her name in Baaj, she did not look back and had no intentions of doing so. His tears were no more significant than rain; wetness that would dry, as all water does. But even she, and even now in her bondage, understands that what she is witnessing now is beyond the petty human concept of the beautiful.

Like starlight in the shape of whispering smoke, souls pass one by one through the gaping maw of the door. In Etro's mighty hand, they gather, and She pulls them apart. She touches them with the chaos in her finger, and scatters their atoms to distant worlds. A cacophony of saturated light and midnight shadow, it's a vast undoing that Anima watches. Creation in reverse.

A putrid tendon in Anima's neck snaps as she cranes it further backwards and drinks deeper of what she sees above her. _Like a river, _she thinks. The simile is trite, but she cannot refrain from making it. Because just like a river, the nova-bright tides above crash into themselves. They froth. Splash. Tease the gravity that pulls them – _inevitably_ – towards some end.

The relevant difference, of course, is that this is river of the dead. And it ends not in an ocean but at a gate in the sky.

The Door of Souls. The nexus of the dead of all worlds. The _true_ Farplane.

Anima wonders if Yuna knows to where she Sends the dead of Spira. If she can even guess that those who die on one world will have their spirits scattered to another. Those that are lucky will awake as a tree, perhaps; a stone, a skylark. Something that finds peace in its own nature. Those that are less so will open their eyes to another version of themselves, still heavy with the weight of sins left unrepented for; with things left undone, unsaid.

It's an exercise in balance, or so Anima has been told. Life and death; harmony and chaos; light and dark. But that is not what she sees. All she sees is power. A fountain of it so vast that Her Providence has made a thousand enemies defending it.

The Dragon gathers strength so he may feed on it. Lindzei comes with her Light Angel to stop the murdered bride's gambit. The Lufenian plays a game with rules he does not understand.

Anima sighs. This will all come to an end soon. The pieces are arrayed before their players. All that remains now is for the endgame to start.

_Such insignificant creatures. Such small things upon which to risk a universe_. Even dear, kind Yuna, the bringer of the Eternal Calm; her own son's chosen bride. They rush home - blind and foolish, heady, _young_ – but they do not know what destruction they will leave in their wake.

The Door of Souls opens one way, and one way only. To send something back over the tide…

It is always the smallest things that catalyze the most compelling reactions. Explosions from the meanest of sparks; revolutions from a single word; black holes from weightless atoms of starfire that cool, one by one.

_Better for them to die_, Anima thinks, relaxing her broken neck and fixing her visible eye on the monolithic crystal cells that nucleate the walls of the Last Floor. They will die eventually, anyway. Why so great a sacrifice for so very little? For six particles of dust? What makes these so much more than any of those who die without reason? The nameless unmourned…

She would have killed them herself, if she were not otherwise bid. If she were not otherwise chained.

There is no question that her son was vile and evil and that his mind was as rotted as her flesh, but in this and this alone he was correct: there are times when death is the most merciful thing.

Anima is confused that Her Providence agreed to this madness, that She agreed to defy Her Sister. But then again, She requires Her champion for Her own purposes. And of these, Anima knows nothing. She has been called to serve, and that is what she will do. If the time is coming to bring the war to Valhalla, let it come.

It makes little difference to her.

"Do not trouble yourself with matters you cannot change, Fayth." The voice that intrudes upon Anima's solitude is so quiet, it's nearly lost in the sound of footsteps that ring across the Last Floor. "We have _all_ been given roles to play here. Play yours."

There is no reason for Anima to turn and face the creature that interrupted her. He is the strangest of Etro's servants, this one. It's been a very long time since she was human – since she suffered human frailties like irritation, sadness, regret – but nevertheless. She finds the metal on metal grate of his appendages abrasive. It's grinding. _Unpleasant_.

"_Perhaps._" Idly, Anima runs her rotted fingers through the pool of liquid darkness that dogs his steps. The skin comes off, smears the Last Floor with greasy streaks of brown and beige and black. "_But I have guided them across the bridge, already. It is your task that follows."_

"When the Lufenian's mage is done with them, I will do as I have agreed."

"_Agreed?"_ Anima cocks her head, looks at the reflection of his face in the Floor. His bandages are cleaner than hers, but the wounds they cover go deeper, she suspects. They poison what mind he has left. _"Strange choice of word, Ferryman."_

"It is more correct than you know," he replies, seemingly untroubled. The sound of metal clicking and tapping against itself resonates in her naked bones. Even now she finds machina distasteful, and this creature is a chimera of it. Where blood should flow, he has liquid steel and toxins and plasma-thick oil. He turns what remains of her stomach.

"I trust you hear Her calling you?" he prods. Because he's aware the sound of it distresses her, he takes his time folding his false wings upon his back. "These new souls are screaming…"

Feeling no need to acknowledge him, Anima rises. The endless mirrored crystal of the Last Floor reflects everything, and she sees her own hideousness refract itself amidst glory. Amongst the shattered starlight, exposed muscles sag from tea-brown bones, and her bandages are rancid with decay. She's rotting more and more, but despite all this, it dawns on her that between her and the Ferryman and the sea of souls above, she is the closest thing to a living human here.

Because she feels the sudden urge to laugh, Anima wonders if – _perhaps _– she's closer to alive than she originally thought. But then the humor leaves her and she revises her position, thinks _perhaps not_. The Last Floor is no place for life of any sort, after all. This is the dominion of the dead.

The black flies that mill beneath Anima's bandages chew out of the fabric, sated. She blows on them. They scatter.

"Are you going, or not?" Etro's Ferryman sounds bored.

Anima nods and turns her single eye to the churning souls above. She will join them, quiet them, whisper soothing words to them in the language of Summoners, in the language of her long dead, long forgotten son.

There is a moment where she wonders on what world his spirit now festers. She pities it, wherever it is.

Dismissing the thought, Anima dissolves herself in magic. Her spirit ascends through a silent sky, and she goes to aid the Goddess of Death at Her Work.

* * *

><p>Sitting on the prow of the <em>Falcon,<em> her long, bruised legs crossed and dangling off the edge of the bowsprit, Lightning Farron breathes into her fist. She's cold – _very cold_ – and whole battalions of goosebumps are on the march across her arms and legs. Palming the flesh, she tries to wipe them out, but it's useless. The second she rubs them off they simply regroup, double their numbers. Deciding to give them the win, Lightning just sighs and points her bare feet, dips them deeper into the roiling wind. The frigid air gnaws her sore skin, but for some reason the pain's honest-feeling. And because it can't really hurt her, it calms her down.

Throwing her head back against the brutal velocity, she closes her eyes and curls her toes. Above the crown of her head, there's nothing but billowing sail. Beneath her feet there's nothing but deep, deep sky.

Her molars chatter. The more rational part of Lightning recognizes she's at the edge of freezing her ass off and she should probably just get down. Get changed, drink the warm, mulled wine that Yuna's made everyone. There's even a shower on board – _one that Laguna's been hogging all night – _and if she were smart, she'd follow his lead. Go below decks and scald all this built-up bullshit off of her: all the blood and dried sweat and sand. The molting scabs. The pale crystal dust. Everything else.

Something stops her, though. It's…_nice_ sitting up here. The cold is bracing and all the clean she needs. It opens her, feeds her, fills her up with something that doesn't have anything to do with gods or their playthings; with what she remembers and what she forgets.

Opening her eyes, Lightning loosens her grip from the polished wood of the prow and leans forward. She's flirting with free-fall, but she doesn't care. She knows she's fast enough to catch herself if she needs to. All she's looking for is a jolt of adrenaline – a naked hit of speed – something she can lose herself in _just for a second_…

Slipping forward, Lightning feels her stomach drop as her shoulders tip over her hips. Her center of gravity shifts. Her senses blur with yanking acceleration. Her wide open eyes look at mineralized water and see stars. _Or something like them_. _Something close._

There's only a half nanosecond left before momentum pitches her overboard, but it's all the time she needs. Her hands fly behind her and grasp the rail. She's safe, for the time being. And her heart is racing in her chest and she feels like she's warm and fresh and almost alive again. Almost free.

Settling back on the widest part of the bowsprit, Lightning pushes hair from her face. It reminds her of something, this false inside of a world she was trapped in, once upon a lifetime ago. The mechanized interior of a toxic cocoon.

Lightning shakes her head free of the thought. On some other night, she'd chase the frayed-ribbon edges of the memory; try to catch another glimpse of who she once was. But tonight, she reallycouldn't give a shit. Tonight, Tifa and Vaan are alive, she's got real human skin on her left breast, and she's as close to fine as she's been in long, long, time. _So the past_ _– _she swallows the heart-rate that sears the dip of her throat – _can kiss my ass._

They've got to focus front if they're going to survive this. _If they're going to avoid losing anyone else_.

_Kain._ His name carves a hollow in her chest that burns when she breathes. She hates it. But not as much as she hates that the footsteps that clap on the deck behind her aren't his.

Pulling her legs up, she folds over herself: her elbows hook over her shins and a cold brow settles against cold, abraded knees. _Traitor. Idiot. Arrogant __**prick.**_A thousand different words barge around her mind in spin-cycle. And even though it doesn't make one bit of difference, she whispers them out loud against the salted dirt of her skin. "Bastard. _Moron.__** Why**__?_"

All the freezing speed she's been relying on to keep her away from this one fucking thought retreat from the sudden burn in her throat. Changing tactics, she bites down hard against the patch of knee-flesh her lips are resting against. She'd drag him back from heaven or hell or wherever he ended up to get an answer to that question. _Or maybe_ – she bites harder and the cold, dry skin gives way to hot, wet blood – _maybe just to see him again_.

There aren't really enough words in the common tongue to describe how angry she is at him. They didn't get _**this far**_ together – through the blood and bullshit and everything, _everything_, else – just so he could die on her watch. So she could fail at one more thing…_lose_ one more thing. They were supposed to get through this together._ All of them._

This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

'_How touching.' _His dead voice intrudes on her brain. _'You miss me_._'_

"Shut up," Lightning whispers to no-one. Lifting her head, she rests her eyes on the distant somewhere. The wheeling dark sparkles, water-color thin, and she's so intent on it she barely notices when a slender figure crawls up beside her, smelling of soap.

Dully, she wonders who in their right mind wouldn't catch that she wants to be left alone. But then she remembers she's on the same boat with Yuna, Laguna _and _Tifa now. She doubts she'll ever get a second to herself ever again.

"Hi, Tifa," Lightning says, nonchalant.

"Hey," Tifa answers, nudging her gently with a supple shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, Lightning notices she's showered, and her wet hair is tied back – _sort of _– in a massive, weak-looking bun that doesn't have a chance of staying in place in this wind. "I brought you some of that wine Yuna made. It's _delicious._" She smiles. "Who'd've thought _Yuna_ could make drinks_?_ I was going to do it, but then Laguna took the bottles and he, well…"

"What?" Lightning keeps her face flush to the wind, doesn't move. "Mixed tequila and milk? Or did he just bring a bottle of straight vodka with him to the shower?"

Tifa scrunches her nose, and Lightning notices her face is still shadowed with soot, and that there's still dirt wedged beneath her fingernails. "Not _exactly_…I mean, not even Vaan would drink it. Anyway, Yuna rescued us." She shrugs. "I didn't even know she _drank_."

Smirking, Lightning shakes her head. "I'd need alcohol too if I had to deal with that boyfriend of hers."

"_Light_," Tifa chastises, pushing a rebellious strand of hair back behind her ear. "He was hyper but he wasn't so bad. You only fought him the one – "

"_Bubbles, _Tifa," Lightning interrupts. "Teenage boy_. __**Bubble**__ sword. _She can do better." Pausing, she eyes Tifa washing down a guilty giggle with a sip of _her_ wine. "And I saw that, thief."

"Well, _you _aren't drinking it," Tifa retorts. Curls of steam coil over her fingers as she settles the mug in her lap. She thumbs the handle a little before she admits: "Okay, so maybe I like my guys a bit older. And taller. And with fewer daddy issues. Oh, and do you know what a _blitzball_ is? I mean, is that a real sport, even?"

Lightning snorts, feels some of the weight come off her chest. She hadn't realized until right this second that she'd missed the hell out of this girl. "Don't think so. Can't figure out what an 'Abe' is either – "

"I _know._ Sounds like some kind of monkey. Although it's not as weird as that Shoopuf thing Jecht was always talking about…" Tifa looks off, looks up. "But Yuna seems to love him, and that's what matters, isn't it? Now _here_." Reaching over to grab one of Lightning's hands, she presses the scalding mug into her palm. " 'Cause you can't complain I'm stealing it if you just sit there all sober and glaring. _Besides_" – she pauses, shivers – "it looks like you need it."

Heat pours into Lightning's joints as she lifts the warm porcelain to her lips and tastes the first thing she's had in about a thousand years that isn't some mixture of dirt, rot and beef jerky. _Cloves, tannin, __**honey**__._ It's overwhelming, almost. The sweetness and the warmth of it. The way it almost tastes like home.

"You're right," she says. There's sugar on her lips as she speaks. She says the words slowly so she doesn't lose it.

Cocking her head, Tifa smiles, and the fingers of the wind pull strands of hair from her bun. "I'm right '_it's delicious_', or I'm right '_you need a drink_'?"

Blowing over the rim of her cup, Lightning breathes out a small laugh. "_Both._"

"Good," Tifa replies, emphatic. "Because I've had two already. Well…_two _plus the one I took from Vaan because he wants to impress the compass…"

Wiggling her numb toes over the smooth deck, Lightning raises a brow. "The _compass?_"

"Yeah_. Fran_. The talking compass." Tifa giggles. "You haven't met her? You'd get along. I mean, I think she might've tried to steer Vaan overboard when we were coming back to get you…Anyway, so there was that one, and the one I shared one with Laguna before he stole the shower. And then there was the sip I snuck from you_…_"

Lightning nearly spits out her drink. Turning, she notes the flush on Tifa's cheeks, the weird stretch in her smile, and really, the _pure _ridiculousness of that ten pound bun.._.Right._ "Right." She takes another sip of her wine. "Explains the hair."

"Be nice, Light." Tifa sounds perfectly content with her decisions, even if she does take hasty, sloppy swipes at her falling-down bun. "Since nothing's trying to kill us _right now_, there's no reason we can't relax a bit. Now drink," she orders, rubbing her hands together, "it'll warm you up. It's _freezing_ up here. I can't believe you left your boots on deck_. _Your toes are going to fall off, and _then_ what'll you do?"

Lightning shakes her head at the last comment, mentally categorizing Tifa under _'can't hold her liquor'. _"I'll be fine, Lockheart," she replies. "Besides, I like it up here. It's quiet. Peaceful."

Visibly shuddering, Tifa rolls her eyes and tries to pull her tiny t-shirt over her stomach with slow, semi-frozen fingers. "If you say so. Seems more like cold, dark and miserable to me."

"You don't have to stay," Lightning says, even though she doesn't want her to leave. Not really.

"Hey, I can deal with cold, dark and miserable," Tifa replies. "I'm friends with _you_, remember. And Kai – ", she stops herself before the name comes out of her mouth. "Sorry."

"Why?" Lightning answers. The warmth of the wine evaporates in her stomach. "He's dead. He can't hear you."

Uneasily, Tifa tries to steady the unstable mountain of hair on her head. It doesn't work, and more of it spills out through her fingers, obscures the look on her face as she continues. "It's just, nobody's even been _talking_ about it…"

"What's there to say?" Lightning takes a slow, deliberate sip of her wine. It's cooling rapidly now, and the hardening sugar sticks her lips together. "He wanted to die. He got what he wanted."

A sharp intake of breath betrays Tifa's shock at her words, but Lightning doesn't care. _It's true. _Unrepentant, she sends the accusation out into the hollow night. She waits for a reply that she knows won't come, even if she thinks she hears _something_ in the wind as it rushes by.

She bites her lower lip viciously, refuses to feel this crazy.

"Don't you think you should cut him a little slack, Light?" Tifa asks after the silence wears itself thin. "And you, too. It's not your fault, either."

"What would _you _know about it?"

Under a sturdy gust of wind, the uneven beehive sitting on top of Tifa's head finally collapses. Ropes of hair devolve over her face, and this time, it's her turn to fix her eyes somewhere off in the widening distance. "You can't always _make_ someone realize something, Light," she says, ignoring the accusation like she's used to being pushed aside, like she's used to people not caring what she thinks. "Sometimes you just have to make peace with it, that they're never going to see things the way you want them to. Or the way that's best for them."

Taking the last few sips of her drink, Lightning stares at the crimson-butterfly patterns staining the bottom of the cup. Idly, she thinks of fortune tellers, of the way they think they can see the future in the arbitrary curves and swells of tea leaves and coffee grinds. She breathes a soft laugh through her nose, wonders how anyone could actually believe something like that. That tomorrow and all its traps is something you can just _read_ somewhere, that's visible to the naked eye…

Stopping the thought midstream, Lightning opens her hand, lets the mug drop. It shatters against the inane drill under the _Falcon's _bowsprit, and she watches the fragments frost the screw-grooved, pitted iron before she finally responds. "What does _that _have to do with anything?"

"Just that _Kain_…" Fidgeting with something in her pocket, Tifa sighs before she continues, "reminds me of…a good friend of mine. Stubborn. Hurt. _Lonely."_ She pauses, chews her lower lip. "Kain was never going to listen to anyone, Light. I know you _tried, _on the bridge. But there was nothing you could do. He…wanted to do something _good_, I think. Something to make it up to you. He said he didn't care, but I know he didn't want you to hate him. It upset him, I think."

Breathing in hard, Lightning searches for something to do with her hands. Fumbling for her pack, she sifts through it for an elastic, and swallowing, hands it over. "This _friend_ of yours." Lightning tries to change the subject. "What happened to him?"

"He left. Went to figure it out." Tifa pulls a crystal ring that looks a lot like Vaan's out of her pocket, and rolls it around in her hand. Aimlessly, she twists the elastic around it instead of using it to tie back her wild hair. "He came back eventually. There were kids we were looking after so…I waited."

Anger rakes across Lightning's stomach. "You just _sat_ there, you mean."

Uncoiling the elastic from the ring, Tifa puts it back in her pocket before she finally pulls her hair back. She looks at Lightning with too-bright eyes. "What good would being angry do?" There's a resignation in her voice that Lightning wants to shoot, wipe out, destroy. "It's not going to change anything. It's not bringing anybody back."

Lightning looks away. "Damn right," she mutters. "And if you're that stupid, it shouldn't."

"Oh, stop it." Tifa actually sounds angry, and Lightning tenses. "You're _right_. Kain died and he didn't really need to. And he did it for some _ridiculous _reason that probably only he thought was right. _Everybody_ agrees with you. But he's still gone_, _and I don't think being this angry actually makes you feel better. I mean, _does it_?"

_**Yes**__, _Lightning's mind strikes back immediately, but then, just as quickly it flashes: _No. _She breathes in heavy air until the soft tissue of her lungs won't take anymore, until the sore muscles of her rib cage strain. Tifa's right, of course. It doesn't make anything any better. But that's not the point. The point is that it feels good. Or better than the alternative, anyway_._

Besides, she's got nothing else to offer, nothing left to say.

Her lips part, but words don't come out. The insides of her mouth are dry and sticky. She wishes she could still taste the sweetness on her lips. She wishes a lot of things, actually.

A strong wind tugs on her face, and she remembers him catching her. _You __**idiot.**_ She remembers the feel of his arms when she tore rain from the unreal sky and stitches out of his ruined skin. _'I've known monsters enough',_ he'd said to her later. _'To know there's no such thing in you'_.

He'd believed it, too. By a way longer shot than she did.

_Why the hell are you dead? _It hurts to breathe. _Why the hell are we __**here**__? __Why…_

Tifa doesn't stop just because Lightning's uncomfortable. "You didn't answer me, Light. Does it?"

Turning away, Lightning fixes her burning eyes on passing stalactites. As they flash by, she forces herself to count them because it's better than thinking about anything else she's got to think about. Because the logic of _one, two, three_ is about the only thing keeping her breathing steady, keeping her from thinking about everything they've lost and won't get back.

"Unless you really _didn't_ – "

"_No_." The cold burn in Lightning's chest won't let up. _No, it wasn't that I didn't care._ "It's just I…" The world on the _Falcon's _starboard side blurs as the words shift to right angles in her mouth. "_I…_"

"Miss him?" There's something in Tifa's voice that pushes down on Lightning's gut. The hand on her back is so gentle it's completely unbearable, but she doesn't shake it off. It's warm. It's the warmest thing she's felt in a long time. "I know," she goes on. "I miss Cloud, too."

Lightning can't stifle her own bitter laughter. _Unbelievable. _It's the last straw, that name, Tifa's friend, who's still getting chewed up and spit out back in Dissidia. It's the last unfair thing she can take. _The absolute fucking last…_

"Damn it, Tifa." The words escape an airtight throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Yeah. Me neither." Tifa's voice is haunted by a rueful laugh. "I think I might like another drink now." She pauses, swallows audibly. "You want one?"

Instead of answering, Lightning just reaches out to squeeze Tifa's frozen hand. The tears that slide down her face are cold and fragile. Easily, the stark wind breaks them, scatters them amongst false stars.

* * *

><p>The Captain's Quarters have a heady, mixed-up smell to them. Like melted wax and cedar; antiseptic and bitter, healing herbs. They're warm, too – in that cozy-in-winterish way that candlelight can make any small room warm – and Aerith Gainsborough figures it would be almost uncomfortable in here if she'd bothered to close the door. She didn't though, so the cold air, <em>along with anything else,<em> can blow right on through.

It's not very private. It's not private _at all_, actually. But Aerith couldn't care less. _In fact_, she thinks, parting her swollen lips a little wider to accommodate the demands of Minwu's insistent mouth, she can't think of _anything_ she cares less about just this second, _thank you_.

He makes low, growling noises that vibrate in the chamber of her mouth, tremble through her throat, settle deep between her thighs. Kneeling in front of him on the bed, she arches her body to the blood-soaked bandages on his chest, so relieved that he's okay that she can't get close enough. She's greedy now. For the feel of warm skin and grasping hands, the wet, wine-flavored flicks of tongue…

Her fingers ford over his shoulders, his back, the sides of his face. Importuning hums and whimpers are refugees that venture through the air, but she doesn't care if the entire universe hears them. They have so very little time left, after all. And she doesn't want him to think she doesn't love him. After everything she put him through, she doesn't want there to be any doubt.

Drops of blood from the Lufenian's cursed wounds congregate on his hands – Aerith can feel the sticky-wet warmness seep through her shift to the small of her back – but she ignores it. _There'll be a stain_, she thinks incoherently as she breaks the kiss to gasp for she doesn't care. She needs evidence. _By this, they will know her. By the__ fingerprints of the First Mage of Fynn… three times killed, only twice saved… _

Glorying in the unexpected strength of his arms, Aerith throws her head back beneath the open-mouthed kisses Minwu pushes into her neck. His teeth rake her bruises and she flinches and _it doesn't matter. _He's here. _She's here._ And this place hasn't defeated them yet and will not. Not this time. _Not ever again_.

As he stills in her arms and a desperate embrace relaxes to tenderness, she sends a confidential wish out to the Lifestream. She closes her eyes. They breathe. And for a moment, all that lies between them is the feel of his blood and sweat-sticky skin under her dirty palms, the shape of the vows he mouths into her neck. Smiling, she strokes his hair, reads his lips on her flesh. What he tells her is beautiful – _as it was_ _always beautiful – _even if she was too much of a brat to see it at first.

Cradling his head in the crook between jaw and collar, Aerith nods. When she finally opens her eyes, she does so to the cursed lacerations that chew his back. She glares at them, and as she presses him closer to her breast, she barely notices the cure spells that spill from her fingers; that chase them and seal them. She heals him without words, without effort, without request.

"Hi there," she whispers when the spells fade and she's confident enough he won't vanish if she speaks. "Miss me?"

"Always," he replies, nipping the word against her fluttering jugular. "And you?"

"_Maybe_," she half-teases, disentangling herself from his arms and relaxing her knees until their eyes are level. As cobalt-blue as ever, they're dizzy-making deep. "What on the Planet were you _thinking?_ You can't leave the Phantom Village. And Lindzei's _screaming, _how did you – "

"I managed," he answers, lazily untying the gordian knots of her braid. "The lad carries more status charms than I've ever seen on a single person. He loaned me some few, until the witch stilled her throat."

Aerith brushes away the soft hands of guilt that pluck at her. Vaan will hate her forever, but there's no question she'd do it again. Pressing her small palms protectively to Minwu's ears, she sets her brow against his. "But that shouldn't have been _enough_. The whole Lifestream was shielding me…how did _you_..?"

Pulling back enough to kiss the crinkled skin between her knotted eyebrows, Minwu makes a small noise that could be amusement, could be disgust. "Perhaps the Lufenian has grown fond of me. These wounds should kill me but they don't. The witch's scream should have shattered my mind, and yet here I am."

"Maybe you're just not killable." Aerith settles her cheek against his. The words rot with irony, given, well, everything they've done, everything there is left for them to do. "Is it the veil? Only Lightning and Yuna have been able to cast through it. Maybe it's stronger than we thought."

"I think not," Minwu scoffs. Idly, his hand drifts down through the currents of her undone hair. "His science was only able to accomplish one thing of note, and that because of me."

Aerith grimaces, remembers, changes the subject. It's still difficult for him, even now. "Have you seen Ellone? Is it too late?"

"She returned only briefly," he replies, spreading his fingers and using them to pull out the final kinks in her braid. "And then only to tell that we've some time left. Cosmos hasn't yet destroyed herself. Whether I've strength enough to play my part in this is another matter. Or whether I've the stomach for it…" Something like regret flickers in bottomless, merciless eyes. It's the first time Aerith's seen it in a long time. "She does not deserve any of the fates that wait for her. And perhaps I am wrong to think her sacrifice necessary or desirable."

Aerith pulls back immediately and fetches Minwu's hand from her hair. Pressing his dry knuckles to her lips, she glowers at him. "Don't you even think it. We're so _close_."

Laughing quietly, he pulls his hand back fractionally and unfurls long fingers over her face. "So _now_ you're willing? Have I corrupted you finally, my Keeper of Holy?" He looks at one of the cuts on her face with scouring hatred before obscuring it with his thumb. She turns her face to kiss his dry palm. "Was it not you who named me a disgrace to White Magic?"

"Yes," she answers, meeting his gaze squarely. "I was wrong. We have a chance to set everything right. All of it. And wasn't it _you_ who said that it's the duty of white mages to sacrifice? To save those who can be saved? Lightning…"

"...cannot be helped," Minwu finishes his own argument but he looks off when he does it. "And we must choose our battles strategically. I know my words well. It's merely…" he trails off.

"What?" she prods, squeezing his hand. It's clammy with fever and she charges Cura in her fingers.

Minwu's eyes snap back to hers, and he covers her spell with Silence. He doesn't want her to waste her strength. "If there is no justice in the means, Aerith," he answers, sharp, "how can there be worth in the ends? Is this really a thing we can justify in the end?" The fine lips smirk, but it's pained. "It's always easier, is it not, to make a sacrifice that isn't yours?"

A part of Aerith thinks it's endearing that Minwu still thinks he can out-cast her. Only one of them keeps Holy, after all. And it isn't him. "Not as easy as it is to avoid a difficult choice," she replies, forcing her magic past his and digging her nails into the back of his hand. They made their choice already. And some choices you can't un-choose. "We need to find Kain's crystal. We can't just leave it sitting out there. It's too dangerous."

What Minwu lacks in pure power, he makes up for in wit as Shell inverts the spell, sends it back over her. The cut on her face blooms new skin. "Not days ago you took my position," he counters. "And now this? Not a second of mourning for Ricard's lost son?"

Shaking her head no, Aerith doesn't relent. Ghosts of Midgar's crumbling towers haunt her eyes but she blinks them away. She couldn't afford to be distracted _then_ either. "So much more than a second," she replies, pushing Dispel through the cracks in the Shell. "But didn't you once tell me that mourning didn't mean _stopping_? "

"Hmpf," Minwu's weak. He can't keep the Silence from breaking. "Perhaps. But my ideals died some time ago."

"So?" Aerith cuts him off. She sees a response flash in his eyes and curl over his mouth, but she presses a finger to his lips before he can answer. "Ideals don't keep people alive Minwu_. _At least this way, they live."

Tilting his head, Minwu collects her hand and presses a thoughtful kiss to her wrist. "Live for what, though?" he muses, "If there's nothing to stand for?"

Shrugging, Aerith smiles. "I'm not sure, Minwu," she says. He always gets lost in his thoughts, when he's tired. And he's so tired now. _Too tired_. She covers her worry with a whispering laugh. "But I bet they'll figure it out."

"Fair enough." Conceding defeat, he relaxes his back against the headboard, lets the green light of the spells soak into olive skin. As the fever recedes, he breathes. "And nevertheless, there's no walking backwards over this path." Lifting a strand of her hair, he idles it between his fingers, captivated. "Hardly the talk of the martyred child summoned here so long ago. The one with the ribbons in her hair…"

"Maybe I never wanted to be a martyr," Aerith retorts in a soft voice. Crawling forward over the bed, she straddles his waist with her knees, ropes her arms over his neck, settles into him. "Maybe I wanted to be something else."

Minwu tenses, and there's novels about everything they've been through in the way his muscles go rigid. The hands he rests on flare of her hips still, venture no further. "I apologize for the loss of that life, Aerith. I wanted to give it back to you. I am sorry I wasn't able to do so."

"I know you are," she soothes. She'd rather not think about what he tried to do for her. What it cost him. So she just holds him tighter and breathes in the incongruous smell his skin. _Sweat. Black Tea. Mint_. "But I'm not."

Aerith knows that the wounds Minwu's suffering from must be horribly painful. The curse is such that the lacerations stay near the surface of the skin where almost all the nerves cluster. Each time he's cut he'll feel it fresh; the splitting skin, the parting strands of muscle. And yet (_and __**yet**__…)_ through it, he's still able to adjust her in his arms, to press his mouth down on hers in a kiss that reminds her only of things that are strong and unhurt. Not tentative anymore, his hands settle on crush her forward, demanding.

It's not reverent, this kiss. But then, Aerith Gainsborough is a little sick of being _revered._ Locking her arms around his neck, she opens her mouth wider, feels one of the straps of her shift fall off her shoulder before Minwu's thumb toys with the other. Her hands slide down his flank, and the thought of closing to door visits her mind only to break apart immediately as the calloused pads of his fingers push the fabric down, off…

The shift bunches at her waist. Cold wind kisses its way down her spine.

"Lady Aerith," a voice from the doorway breaks their single shared shadow in two. "I brought Sir Minwu some salve. It's something we make in Spira that has – _oh, um, __**oh**_ – "

The sound of a bowl crashing to the floor drags Aerith back to her senses. Hastily, she rearranges her shift, but not before sparing a thought that, yeah, maybe shutting the door behind her wouldn't have been such a bad idea. Sighing, she turns.

"I'm sorry," Yuna splutters. "I dropped the salve…" She's shielding her eyes as if she's looking straight into the sun, and the blush that matches her horrified expression is summer-tomato bright.

Despite herself, Aerith laughs. She laughs until the room is warmed by Minwu's soft chuckling, by Yuna's eventual, exploratory giggles. "No, don't be sorry," she says, retreating from the bed. Coming up to the other woman, she scoops the bowl of salve off the deck. She smiles. "I should've closed the door."

Lowering her hand, Yuna nods. Aerith can still see traces of embarrassment linger in her cheeks, but they fade quickly. "I understand," she says with a hint of wistfulness that even her Summoner's grace can't obscure completely, and Aerith knows who she's thinking about, who she probably thinks about all the time. "I'll leave you – "

"No, don't." With her free hand, Aerith reaches out to stop Yuna from turning out the door. She has a part to play in this, too. And it's important that she understand. They can't tell her everything, but they can tell her a little. Enough so she understands what she'll need to do, when the time comes. "We owe you an explanation. About what happened with Lightning, and everything else."

Candle-lit confusion plays over the sparkling surface of Yuna's blue-and-green eyes. "We have time, though, Lady Aerith. I'm happy to wait…"

"No," Minwu interrupts. Inclining his head, he lowers his eyes in greeting and respect, the way they do in Fynn. "Please stay. I'm much diminished, my Lady Summoner. If we're to help your friend, we will need you. Very much. And please," – he smiles slowly, and Aerith nods as he speaks the words that bind them all together, the ones he spoke to her, so long ago – "allow me to welcome you to the White Order. We've been waiting for you for some time."

* * *

><p>Leaning over the rail of the<em> Falcon<em>, Laguna reassesses his situation and comes to a few conclusions.

First conclusion. _The person who said taking a cold shower sobers up a drunk person was drunk at the time. _Because he's now convinced that the immediate result of throwing a drunk person in a cold shower is a cold, wet drunk person.

Second conclusion. _Getting drunk on an airship is a bad idea._ He's torn about whether to call how he's feeling airsick or seasick. Airsick appears to make more sense, given that they're hurtling through the atmosphere at speeds he finds really, terribly uncomfortable. But then again, they're on a Hyne-knows-where-_this_-thing came from _pirate ship_, so he can't fully dismiss 'sea-sick' either.

It's really confusing, actually. Think about it makes his spinning head hurt, so he stops doing it.

Third conclusion. _He's got a kid._ He thinks_._ Her name's Ellone. She's got pretty brown hair like _hers_ or Yuna's. And he's either got PTSD like an absolute crazy mother-fucker or he did something so bad to this kid that she thinks it's just fine and dandy to wave the most terrifying thing he's ever seen in her old man's face. The part of his brain that made Captain at nineteen votes PTSD and yearns for some nice, happy blue pills. All the other parts of him though…well. There was a reason he'd brought that vodka to the shower with him.

A bubble of nausea expands in his stomach, which leads him to the fourth and final conclusion. _Do not tell Light he drank __**all**__ the vodka._ He knows she likes it. And he figures that the only thing worse than being this air-sick-sea-sick-drunk-whatever would be to have Lightning chase him around deck with an empty bottle. But then again, he's so glad she's still breathing and not some semi-sentient zombie, he'd probably be more okay with it now than at any other time, he guesses.

"_Laguna_," Vaan barks. His face is ruddy in the wind, and of all of them, only he and Lightning haven't showered. But then again, getting him off the deck of this boat would take a team of wild Malboros. "Get off the _rail. _You're going to fall off."

"Now, now, Vaan." Laguna feels himself smile a lopsided grin, but he doesn't step back. The air pounding his face is about the only thing keeping all that nice, sweet wine in his stomach where it belongs. "No need to be concerned. I'm just hanging out. Had a rough couple of weeks, you know."

"Like _we_ haven't?" Vaan snaps back, and Laguna _swears_ the kid is tilting this boat out of pure malice. "And besides. You wanna make it worse by falling overboard?"

Tilting his head, he's got to give it to Vaan that he's got a point. Being alive is one of his favorite things, and he wouldn't want to wreck it. That said, he's pretty sure that if he stands all the way up, something truly, truly awful is going to happen to his stomach.

_There will be __**consequences**__, Loire_, he thinks fuzzily, his disobedient hands clutching at the intricately carved mermaid-rail for dear life. "Consequences," he mumbles into the freshly-washed arm of his jacket as his knees crumple under him. "Consequences _suck._"

"This fool," – somewhere in the thick, swirly wet of Laguna's mind, a lovely choral-sounding voice mocks him – "is your companion?"

"Yeah." There's a shrug in Vaan's voice as he answers. "Go easy on him though, Fran. I think he's had too much to drink."

_Hey_, Laguna wants to argue. _That's hardly fair._ What kind of justice is there in this universe if you can't have a few drinks after – _well_ – a couple of weeks spent wandering through a soul-sucking desert. He feels like that should earn a guy a drink. _Or eight._

"It is not my concern," the voice – _strange talking compass_, Laguna remembers – replies. "_That_."

Laguna doesn't feel it at first, the way the _Falcon_ lists to port. Because his perception is round and blurry at the edges, all he feels is more of the same stomach churning rocking he's been feeling since the second he set foot on this tub. But then the angle changes, and the rail under his armpits starts to shift, dig into his skin. His leverage shifts from _yes, yes I __**can**__ hold on_, to _nope, no I can't_ and – one by one – his fingers pop off the cute little mermaids. Their pretty, naked waists and plump lacquered tails slide right out of his grasp.

_Oh __**shit**__,_ is all he has time to think as he crashes backwards on the deck. When he opens his eyes though, it's to iron-grey waves of massive stalactites, and for a second, he thinks he's looking at an upside-down stone ocean…a wise old granite sea…

_Gotta remember to write that down, _he thinks, awestruck.A bit of sickness lifts from his stomach and he lolls his face sideways; relishes the feel of smooth wood and clean wind and – _thank you Hyne, or Cosmos or Who-Whatever_ – no killing, no bleeding, no dying.

Vaan's irritated sigh sails the wind. "You mind holding her steady for me, Fran?" he asks, fidgeting around in his vest.

"As you wish," the compass answers. "I would prefer not."

_That's just low. _"Hey," Laguna mumbles. He tries to lift his head to address the compass, but his neck doesn't work. He ends up speaking mostly into the deck. "You sound too pretty to be that mean…"

Vaan rolls his eyes. "Don't pay attention to him, Fran."

"You warn where there is no need." The compass manages to sound haughty, and Laguna think's he's probably hit a new low, getting shot down by a navigational tool.

Through his cheek, Laguna feels the vibrations in the deck as Vaan makes his way towards him. His eyes are half-slitted now, but he can see that the kid's fishing around in his pockets for something. The tinny sound of this-and-that brushing against itself sings in Laguna's ears, reminds him of nice, everyday things. Like trying to find a hammer in a toolbox, or an ice-cream spoon in a utensil drawer.

"Here we go," Vaan says eventually, pulling out a small iron band. He tosses it up and catches it, satisfied with himself. "This should do the trick," he explains, grabbing Laguna's limp hand and trying to find a finger it fits over. Nothing works except his left ring finger, and for some reason when Vaan slides it over the knuckle, it feels good and right. Like his hand's been missing something there for a long time. "Regen Ring." Vaan smirks and stands up. "Should clear your head in a little. I can't do magick here for some reason, but that should stop you from puking your guts out on my deck."

Clenching and unclenching his fingers, Laguna feels regenerative magic flow up from his ring finger to do righteous battle with the alcohol in his system. Given what he's put away, he's got his doubts about what good it'll do, but then all of a sudden thoughts are fitting together in his brain again and the world's not so tilt-a-whirly.

He sits up. Shakes his head. Smiles. Admits that sometimes Vaan's got good ideas.

"Have you further need of me?" The compass' voice slides through the remaining haze in Laguna's brain. "The mist is painful, that keeps me here. The Green-Word-hearing-Hume shields me, but I tire."

"No," Vaan says, kneeling on the deck beside the compass. "Thanks, Fran. For everything."

"Not bad, there, Vaan," Laguna congratulates him after the compass folds itself back into the deck and his brain's cleared enough for him to form sentences. "Good instincts."

Taking his place back behind the wheel, Vaan snorts a quick laugh. "Why does everybody always sound so surprised?"

"Not _surprised_, buddy." Despite the magic ring, Laguna's still unsteady when he rises to his feet. He doesn't have his sea-legs or air-legs or whatever. "Just handing out a compliment. You should take it."

"Okay, Laguna," Vaan says. "Whatever you say."

Running his hand through his still damp hair, Laguna grins and makes his way over to the wheel. Clapping his hand on Vaan's back, he winks. "That's right. _Now_ you're getting it."

"Sure." Vaan shrugs the hand off his shoulder. "Because the _last_ time we listened to you, we – "

"Saved our friends from a raging manikin horde," Laguna quips. _Got smashed to a bloody pulp in the process, but details, details._ "And even lived to tell the tale. Well, sort of."

Vaan doesn't answer right away, avoids stating the obvious. It's like they've got some kind of agreement not to mention Kain by name, which is fine by Laguna. He knew the guy well enough to know that he'd be pissed to high hell if he thought they were wasting time crying over him.

_I got you, brother_, he thinks, breathing deep and feeling most of the rest of the alcohol clear his blood. _I'll get 'em home._ _You've got my word._

A moment of silence passes, filled with clean, bright wind. He thinks it sounds a little like Ellone's voice, but then pushes the thought away.

"Laguna," Vaan says eventually, banking the ship west. "Can I ask you something?"

Crossing his arms, Laguna smiles. "Kid, you just gave me a booze-proof ring. You can ask me anything you want_._"

"You don't get to _keep _that," Vaan snaps. Rubbing the cold from the tip of his nose, he continues. "Do you remember your family?"

Laguna blinks. He was expecting any number of Vaan-style questions –_ who drinks in the shower, if you get leg cramps around chicks how do you manage in the sack, et cetera, et cetera – _but definitely not, well, _that_. "Bits and pieces," Laguna replies. Wiggling the fingers on his left hand, he smiles a soft smile. _What's your __**name**__ darlin'_? he keeps on asking the space in his mind. It stays quiet, though, like it always does. Sometimes, he thinks that everything would be a whole lot better if he could only remember her _name._ "Had a wife, I think."

Vaan makes a short, astonished-sounding noise. "Someone married _you? _On purpose?"

"Difficult to do it by accident." Laguna grins, closes his jacket over his tank-top to keep out the cold. "I can teach you my moves, if you want_._"

Vaan barks laughter that Laguna thinks is just a little unwarranted. "No, thanks. Anybody else?"

Putting a hand to his chin, Laguna shrugs. The questions are uncomfortable, but no more uncomfortable than anything else they've been through. Plus, he's not so blind he can't see that Vaan's looking for something here – something important to him – and he wants to help. It makes him feel better, to help where he can.

"A little girl, too…" he says eventually, turning his face to the brunt of the wind. He doesn't really want to say her name out loud, but he forces himself to. "_Ellone_. I don't know if she was my actual kid, but I loved her like she was." He pauses, feels a sudden surge of...something that feels a little like guilt. "I think, anyway."

"Hmpf. I don't remember anything." Vaan says it so matter of factly, so _seriously_ that Laguna's head snaps back and he narrows his eyes. "No parents, no brothers and sisters – well, other than Pen – just…_nothing_." He breathes out of his nose, sends searching eyes out over the cavern. "All I remember is wanting to be a sky pirate."

"Isn't that good enough?" Laguna asks. He feels like he recalls Vaan mentioning somebody before – _Tex or someone – _but he's still a little drunk and doesn't want to rub the kid's face in it if he's forgotten. Cautiously, he puts his hand on Vaan's shoulder again, and this time it isn't shrugged off. "I mean, it isn't everything, but it's enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other, right?"

"I don't know, I thought so, when we were back in Dissidia." Vaan's voice is all wire, all edges. "But I feel like then it didn't bother me so much. I think I want answers now, Laguna."

"Look," Laguna replies._ Answers are good_. _Rare, though._ "Let me tell you a secret. Most of the time, there just aren't any answers; not for any of the important questions, even if you _did _have all your memories. Things just happen, mostly, without a lot reasons why. It's not fair, but the best you can do is try and make the best of it. Keep going."

Vaan's knuckles go white over the polished prongs of the wheel. "But don't you think that's just _hiding_?"

Laguna smirks. "Don't knock hiding, kid." He tightens his fingers around Vaan's shoulder. "Been in enough wars to know that the right amount of hiding is healthy. Keeps you alive longer. Like apples and exercise."

Beneath his hand, Laguna can feel Vaan tense up. "Well, what if that's not good enough? Just _staying alive_, I mean."

There's a point of light somewhere Laguna wants to look at, but they're going so fast it just blurs out of his sight. He can't tell what it is. Only that it's pretty, and he'd like to look at it longer. It never seems that he gets to keep things as long as he'd like to.

"I think you'll find, Vaan," he says slowly, quietly, "after you're said and done with being a hero – or a pirate, if that's what you really want – that even when you get answers, they just end up being not as interesting as the questions." Turning the ring with the thumb of his left hand, he goes on. "Not to say you shouldn't look for them, but just that here and now is usually the best place to focus on."

Vaan stays stubbornly quiet, so Laguna keeps talking. "Besides, being here, with us, this isn't _so _bad, is it? I know we're not, I don't know, whoever it is you can't remember, but I we're good people to be stuck in an Interdimensional Rift with, I think. Even _Light – _"

"I get it, Laguna," Vaan interrupts. "And I'm not looking for like, _life answers, _or anything. It's just that…" he pauses, breathes. "I don't think it's so much to ask, you know, to want to remember who I _am_. You know…what I was fighting for, before. _Who_ I was…" he trails off.

Taking a deep breath, Laguna narrows his eyes. For the first time, her realizes how _young_ Vaan is. Not young in terms of pure age – they threw seventeen-year-olds into the army every day of the week on his world – but to have come all this way on his own, on the fumes of some dream that probably just about everyone laughed at him for…

Laguna smiles. He's tougher than he looks, this kid. Whoever his parents are, he thinks they'd probably be proud. "No, it isn't, Vaan," he says, patting him on the shoulder. It's a an awkward kind of gesture, but Laguna can feel the kid relax a bit afterwards. Some of the tension comes out of the coiled-whip muscles, some of the sharpness out of the quick grey eyes. "Why're you asking me all this, anyway?" Laguna asks eventually. He doesn't want the question to come off too serious so he grins, quips. "Other than, you know, my being brilliant and all."

Steadying the wheel, Vaan shakes his head. "Right," he mutters. "More like _old._"

Chuckling, Laguna lifts his hand to cuff Vaan lightly on the side of his head. "Watch it there, kiddo."

The quiet that drifts between them is peaceful, and Laguna relaxes into it. Lets the magic from the ring roll through him, gentle and idle as some forgotten summer's day.

"I'm all sobered up now," Laguna says after a while. He fidgets with the ring, not quite ready to part with the comforting weight on his finger. "You can have this back."

"Nah," Vaan answers after a short pause. He doesn't take his eyes off the horizon. They stay fixed on whatever he's looking for. "You keep it. Maybe it'll help you remember her. Your wife."

Clenching his left hand to a loose fist, Laguna's a bit taken aback. He wants to refuse – he _should _refuse, kid doesn't have all that much to his name – but it's good to have a reminder of her. Even if he can't remember her name, the feel of her hands, the smell of her skin..."Thanks, Vaan," he says, finally.

"Don't mention it," Vaan replies.

* * *

><p>Beating his wings in the dusty air, Cid Raines hovers in the Aerie of the Ruins, surveys his so-called <em>army<em>, crosses his arms over a broad, armored chest and remembers.

"_All I wanted was a moment of triumph," _he'd said, once. In a place of ruin much like this. "_How it ends…doesn't matter…"_

How wrong he had been. How it ends is _all_ that matters. Everything else is an illusion. Everything else is a lie.

"_Do…what you know is right…"_

Because Tifa Lockheart is a kind woman who gave him back his name, Cid remembers his first death well. He died human that day, in a second of radical freedom he will never know again. He remembers it now as a slave remembers sunshine. As those who die of thirst remember rain.

The small noise of disgust Cid makes is lost to all hearing but his own. Beneath and around him, his regiments mill. To his left and right, flights of winged Cie'th roil the air. On the ground, hives of manikins – half in warped crystal reflections of the beasts that soar above them, half in the twisted shape of the warriors of the so-called _gods_ of Dissidia – crawl over themselves. Brainless, they seethe and boil.

Cid narrows his eyes by a fraction. Scab-black and crystal-bright, these are his minions, his soldiers, his – and here he laughs a mirthless laugh – _men._

They prepare themselves for war.

_For murder_, _more to the point_. But now is not the time for semantics. They must reach Cosmos' pawns quickly, before they return to the Phantom Village. Shinryu's power is great, and his protection absolute. Between that and Her Providence's grace...

It will be difficult to flush them out of such a place. No Undying may set foot there.

Rising higher, Cid shakes his head, annoyed. There is too much noise here. The Cie'th screech. The manikins growl. The Gates of Song open, and as they do, they sing. Their voices are too beautiful for the lies of the song.

"_Her Providence sought nothing…Her Providence made nothing…"_

Cid scoffs. He wonders if Tifa Lockheart will ever understand what she opened when she fell through the dark, that day; when she laid her hand on Lindzei's wall…

Her role in this is unjust. She should not be forced to die in this way.

Drawing his sword, Cid vows to kill her quickly, cleanly, well. It is a small mercy, but it is all he can offer. He hopes she does not scream.

She has named him Her Angel. As he is bid, he will bestow Her judgment. But as he can, he will grant his own mercy. Such that remains of it. Such that there is.

Cid is surprised that She has permitted these thoughts to remain in his mind. It is within her power to break him and remake him, as she has done uncountable times before. She might have returned his mind to the maggoty nothingness it was, but She has not. Perhaps it is because She knows it does not matter that this time he will die with a name. Or perhaps it is because She knows that he will face her Sister's champion soon enough, and the knowledge may be useful.

_Lightning._ That one is damned as he is damned. There is no way out for her. Nothing that will remain of her, when Her Providence is done.

Rising above the rest of its swarm, one of the Cie'th flutters moth-like and stupid in front of him. In the center of its chest, a bleeding red wart honeycombs over itself, rancid and cankerous. It used to have eyes, this thing, but the lids have sealed themselves shut with some kind of bluish crust. There are holes in its cheeks, through which he can see blackened sinew slide over rot-stained bones and worn-through teeth.

It screams in his face. It smells.

_Distasteful. _Bored, Cid runs it through, watches with considerable satisfaction as it slides off his blade and down into the subhuman muck where it belongs. Boiling, the mad crystal crowd closes around it, and the shrieking sounds of consumption soar, wide and clear as bells, bells in the high reaches of Eden…

For the ghost of a second, Cid Raines closes his eyes, and images of a life deconstructed roll through his mind. He is a cadet, with grease on his fingers. He is a son, watching his mother cook. He is Brigadier General of a fleet of swift silver ships, and when he returns home in honor, the bands play songs of welcome and of joy.

He hums the tune. His eyes sail open. _This is not home_. He will never go home again.

_It is time. _Raising his left hand slowly to the level of his eyes, he snaps his fingers. It's sharp and complete, the sound, and it dominoes into a riot of screams from the seething Cie'th; an unfettered fortissimo hiss from the lurching manikins. The sound revolts him, but there is nothing he can do about that.

The pawns must fall. The crystals must be retrieved. Now is not the time for Her Father to wake.

_Forgive me, Tifa, _he thinks sadly, raising his sword. Bits of Cie'th still linger on its edge, unclean. _Forgive me, for what I must do._

"Go." The word falls from his lips like a whisper to some lover, but his minions charge forward as if he speaks with the voice of a storm. Seas of Cie'th and manikin-Cie'th roll past him, on their way to the kill.

The Gates of Song widen to allow them through. Their music splits his ears.

Hesitating a moment, Cid catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror brightness of his own blade. Amongst the surge of blackened, rotting flesh and fractured crystal, his white wings and pink skin and shining armor are the only hint of color. And even then, it is pale. The palest reflection of light in a world of darkness; the palest reflection of a man.

"My name," he whispers to himself, and watches the mouth of the reflection follow the curve of the words, "my name is _Cid Raines_."

He doesn't believe himself. Not anymore.

There was a dream he dreamed once, as the man whose name he speaks. Of humans and their potential. Of the things their hands could build. He loved that dream. And as all men destroy the things they love, he goes now to burn it to the ground.

Disgusted, Cid opens his wings to their full expanse and whispers a long-dead prayer to the black-winged sky. A tide of creatures flows through the Gates, unstoppable, and ever faithful, he follows them through.

* * *

><p>Vaan thinks it's a pretty neat trick that Light can manage to look threatening without shoes on. It's not like her whole outfit really screams <em>'<em>deadly paradigm_ – whatever a paradigm is – _commando' anyway, what with the mini-skirt and crop-top and everything. But he feels like the fact she's walking across his deck with those giant boots cradled under her arm should make her seem a little less…well, _serious_, at least.

It doesn't. Blinking against the stiff wind, he wonders what would, actually, short of some kind of complete universe melt-down.

"Hey, Light," he says when she and Tifa reach the wheel-shaft. "Don't you think you should put the shoes _on_?"

Dropping her boots unceremoniously on deck, Lightning bends down to pull one on and glares at him from beneath thin pink brows still festering with sand. "Don't you think you should put on a shirt?"

"No." Vaan's genuinely surprised and a little irritated. He doesn't knock Lightning's random leg pack, or that pointless cape she used to wear all the time. _What's with these guys and __**capes**__ anyway…_"Why would I?"

Breathing a sharp laugh through her nose, Lightning hops into her other boot. "Public service," she mutters.

Deciding to channel Balthier, Vaan shrugs, casts a quick look over at where Laguna's leaning on a stack of crates on the starboard rail. "You know, Light," he says, offering her his best, sly wink-and-grin (or what he hopes comes off as a wink-and-grin), "acting out isn't the best way to deal with attraction."

Vaan regrets his words almost the second that he says them, largely because he's pretty convinced that Light's going to reopen some of the cuts that've just healed on his face. Bracing himself, he tries to keep the inward flinch he feels from showing up in his expression. But even though he's clenched his jaw against it, the hit just doesn't come. And her lips flash something that looks like…_a smile__?_ Disbelieving, Vaan shakes his head, scans the cavern for signs of a universe melt-down and sees none.

_What do you know? _He smiles back, notices her ice-blue eyes have melted some._ Maybe she __**does**__ have a sense of humor. _

Planting her hands on her hips, Lightning clicks her tongue against the top of her mouth. "Brat."

"Now, kids." A quick, Laguna-sounding chuckle slides over the air from where the crates are staked up. "Don't make me separate you two."

"Shut up, Laguna." Vaan's not at all surprised that he and Lightning say it at the same time.

Laughing quietly, Tifa just folds her arms over her chest and grins. For a moment, it looks like she's about to say something, but then her eyes catch on something off the _Falcon's _starboard side, and she squints out towards it. Because Light's standing right in front of him, he can't quite make out what she's looking at, but he can see pretty clearly – _too clearly, in fact_ – the way the Tifa's chews on her lower lip. The way – even in the blue-night light of the cavern – her porcelain skin turns ashy, pale.

He feels his stomach drop. Nothing good ever happens to him when Teefs gets this look.

"Hey, Vaan," she says slowly, and the tone of her voice only pushes the dread deeper. "What's that?"

Leaning forward so he can see around Lightning, Vaan spins the wheel and locks it in place. At first, all he sees is a patch of heavy dark over the light-coffee dark of the rest of the cavern. Hoping stupidly that it's just some kind of weird rock formation, he narrows his eyes at it. But as the mass comes into focus, he knows he's wrong. Completely, totally wrong.

It's _blistering_, the air. Little tears are opening up the atmosphere, dark slits that cluster so close together, it looks – Vaan doesn't have any other way to describe it – like the sky's bleeding. No...maybe not _bleeding_, so much as...

Infected. _Diseased._

Breath freezes in his lungs. _Yeah, that's the right word._

This is not something he wants to be looking at right now, but he can't close his eyes.

"The _hell_." Lightning's voice: hard, edgy, tight. Her gunblade's in her hand, but there's nothing to fire at. Just a vast, sucking darkness that yanks the _Falcon_ almost a full 90 degrees off course and torques the entire frame of the ship. A bunch of confused noises ring in his ears: the groaning snap of boards coming off the deck; the crash of the crates rolling overboard; Laguna's sharp, pained grunts as he hits the deck and then crunches sickeningly into the rail.

"Laguna!" Tifa yells, grasping on to Lightning to try and keep balance as the _Falcon _lists violently, sends braids of rope unfurling from the topmast. _"Laguna. _You okay?_"_

"Never better, darlin'," Laguna calls back. His voice is rough-edged with pain, but he struggles to his feet anyway. "Vaan, kid, you got this?"

Blood rushes in Vaan's ears, so loud drowns everything out except his heartbeat. "Does it _look _like I've got this?" he shouts back. He's pushing all his weight against the wheel, but it's not doing any good. They're trapped. He can't pull them out of this current without help…

"_Fran!_" The word slices over the crash and din of clattering gear. "Fran, we could sure use a hand here.._._"

Because he's straining so hard against the spin of the wheel, Vaan doesn't see the compass roll up from the deck. Nor does he really understand the order and counter-orders he thinks Light and Laguna are yelling at each other. He does _feel_ something though. _Magick._ Coursing through the rudder, pulling the wheel out from under his fingers, correcting their angle on the air. They're still being pulled towards the holes in the sky, but at least they're basically steady now. The _Falcon _isn't going to capsize.

_Not yet, anyway._

Struggling to catch his breath, to hear himself over the roar of his own heartbeat, Vaan splutters. "Fran, what the hell was _that_?"

"Her song," Fran answers, as if it's obvious. "Her _end_ song. You hear it not?"

"_No_." Vaan doesn't understand. He doesn't understand anything anymore. Not this place. Not what he gave up his life for. Not this _compass_ that sounds like home, kinda, but isn't. _Not_ _anything_. All he wants to do is scream, but he forces his anger back in place. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't you hear it?" It's Tifa who answers. Snapping his gaze back over to her, Vaan notices that her eyes are closed and she's swaying. She's swaying the way she did when they first got here, the first time she touched that wall...

"Hear _what?_" Lightning's question is sharp enough to cut. "Tifa, hear _what?_"

Ruby red eyes flash open, but Vaan can see they're not looking at anyone. Her pupils have retreated into her irises, and her hair goes wild around her face. "She pitied mortals…" Tifa's voice is lilting and distant and alien and doesn't sound anything like her. "Destined as they are to die_…_"

"Teefs." Vaan's close to panic, but he can't let go of the wheel. Even with Fran's help, he can barely keep the ship on even keel. "Teefs, snap out of it."

"It's so _pretty…_" she says, her eyes vacant. "Can't you hear it?"

The next sound Vaan hears is the singing slap of skin on skin as Lightning backhands Tifa sharply across the face. And while ordinarily he'd be unbelievably pissed at that, all he can think right now is that it's about the smartest thing anyone could've done. Tifa's hand flies to her cheek, but when she blinks through the pain, she's back to being Tifa more or less. She nods.

By now, Laguna's made his way back from the rail. Coming up to the other side of the wheel, he pushes up on it, tries to help Vaan hold it steady. "Maybe this is an obvious question," he grunts, gesturing out to the spreading cloud his chin. "But somebody mind telling me what the hell that is?"

"A _chance_," Aerith answers, emerging from the Captain's quarters. Yuna's trailing behind, with a look on her face that Vaan can't find a name for. "An open door. Lindzei's made a mistake."

Laguna blinks. "I don't get it."

Turning her palms out towards the rotting sky, Aerith smiles. In whirling streamers, magick like Vaan's never seen before – _and frankly never wants to see again_ – rushes to her hands. Fairytale green, it leaks from the sky, pushing up through the dark like new grass in spring dirt. Vaan would think it was pretty, if it didn't scare the living crap out of him.

"You will, Laguna," she says as more of it seeps through the cracks in the sky and pools in her doll-tiny hands. Her hair lifts from her narrow shoulders, clouds around her face. "You'll see soon enough."

"Aerith." Tifa's hand goes over her mouth and her eyes widen. Magickal light sparks in them, illuminates the deeps of blood red irises. "Aerith, is that…_Lifestream_?"

"Yes," Aerith answers. She clenches her teeth, raises her palms, brings the magick to heel before her. "It is."

Yuna's brows tighten over her eyes. "Light," she says, speaking for the first time since she came above deck. "You've got to get below decks, please. We don't know how long the binding on your brand's going to hold – "

The grating sound of Lightning's gunblade snapping in to sword-form is the only answer she gives. It's the only one she needs to. The steel catches all the weird, different-colored light there is in the cavern and refines it along a steep, killing edge. She crouches, glares out at the darkness like it should be afraid of _her._

Gritting his teeth, Vaan shakes his head and wishes he hadn't lost absolutely every last weapon he had. And he had a lot of weapons. He figures it doesn't matter though._ Someone's gotta fly this thing_. He squints over at Aerith, willing, just for the moment, to trust her. "What do you need me to do?"

Ignoring him, she speaks directly to Fran "Can he do it, Fran?" she asks. There are ribbons of Lifestream in her hair. "Can he fly this through what I'm going to try?"

Vaan really doesn't get why this chick always talks right past him. He's willing to help. He _wants _to _**help**__._ He doesn't think he'd hate her half so much if she'd just _look _at him. Anger burns in his stomach when he spits: "I'm standing right _here_. You can go ahead and talk to me."

"If prepared," the compass responds smoothly, "he can do what a sky pirate must."

"Well then, _sky pirate_," Aerith says. Finally looking at him square, her eyes don't have whites anymore because they're clouded over and burning. The magick in her palms is terrible, beautiful, _alive_. "Prepare."

* * *

><p>Of the two men remaining in the chamber Gabranth affectionately refers to as Hell, he's the only one standing. The other man – <em>if so he could be called<em> – has been unconscious for some time, lying half ruined in a pool of some liquid that could be blood, could be water, could be piss.

It's difficult to tell. The smell of sulfur consumes any other scent. The soot in the air paints everything black.

Gabranth snorts a hollow laugh that echoes in the heated stink inside the Judge Magister's helm. He's untroubled by the sameness of it, anymore. All things here are hardened and parched and dark. The walls. The statutes. The corpses.

There was a time when the petrified faces of the dead Gabranth shared this place with were distressing to him. That time is passed. The flesh is dry, after all; the eyes deflated and flat. They attract no flies.

For rot, they are clean enough.

Off in some corner, Gabranth notes a spear. Likely belonging the human waste in front of him. Stepping over ashes, dust and coal-black bones, he makes his way over to it and picks it up in an armored fist. He eyes it through his visor and concludes it was cared for with expert hands. The edge is seamless, without crater. Sufficiently sharp for a clean cut, but not so thin the metal will give way under a decent thrust.

This is a weapon that is well loved by its owner. Cherished, even. By the smoothness of the haft, the spotlessness of the tassels, it is plain to see that it bore some meaning to the man. Gabranth understands that. He believes it stupid, but he _well _understands the necessity of symbols. To men and nations both. They are reminders. Of things, perhaps, this filth once dreamed of being.

_Noble_, he guesses. Gabranth can't even think the word without bitter tasting spit welling behind his lips. _Husband to a fine woman. Father to fine sons. A ready blade to an honorable king._

Gabranth's upper lip curls. The thing about honor is that it is brittle. Easily is it turned in upon itself. Easily does it _break. _

_Poor vermin._ Curled in on all his want of everything. His simpering, pathetic need.

It is humiliating precisely because it is so humorous. Little _boys_' dreams, these. Gabranth wonders if this man knew how others laughed at him.

Kain Highwind. _Legendary dragoon_. He swallows the saliva that's gathered in his mouth._ Hardly. _

Returning his attention to the spear, Gabranth notes its remaining specifications. Eight feet in length. Fair balance. Three-quarter's stone weight. Six tassels, an honored kill for each, likely. A crimson standard. _For command_, he'd wager, if he were a man who wagered.

Shrugging, Gabranth decides he is indifferent. Spinning the weapon to grasp it two-handed, he snaps the haft neatly, breaks the spine of the weapon in two with his knee. When he throws the halves away, they rustle amongst the debris, and the sound they make is hollow and does not echo.

It is with slow steps the Gabranth makes his way over to where the man is actually lying. It is with an even slower push that he rolls him over with his foot, and then presses an armored boot down over a barely sewn-up chest. Leaning his weight onto the ribs, he tempers the pressure only when he feels the bones reach the fulcrum of breakage. It's a clinical assessment. He has killed by these means before, and knows when to ease so that he does not crush the lungs.

Revolting though he may be, even this useless, fallen excuse for a man has the right to fight his way from here. Gabranth is not a man of mercy, but he knows his task. He knows his task well.

_Duty._ Sneering, he bares his teeth beneath the helm. Finding the center of Kain's chest, he depresses until he feels something almost give way._ There is still that. There is always __**that**__._

A broken noise rises from the broken man. It is a word that Gabranth cannot make out. It doesn't matter, though, because he does not care what it was.

"Rise, traitor," he says. His voice booms around in the helm and tips off a tired headache, right _there,_ behind his left eye. "Rise now and be judged."

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER: <strong> As Kain Highwind fights his past for his future, a duel in Hell ends in a tragic choice. Meanwhile, Aerith's gambit opens a path back to the Phantom Village, but will the party have enough strength to play it through?


	9. Interlude: Pity the Traitor

Door of Souls, Interlude: Pity the Traitor.

**Apologies:** This is late, but I was abducted by a punishing work schedule and and even more punishing holiday one. Hopefully, the new year will bring an 2-3 week posting schedule, as originally anticipated.  
><strong>Thanks:<strong> Distant Glory, as always, for the greek alphabet reads. Also, to feedback givers who sparkle motivation on this piece.  
><strong>Credit: <strong>The image of Lowtown's bonfires goes to Sunnepho, and her utterly breathtaking "Claret Sky". If you have not read it, do so now.  
><strong>Rating Change:<strong> This will move to an M rating after this interlude chapter. Not going to change anything in drafting or plot, but this is too much for the kid crowd, I think.  
><strong>AN:** This is an interlude chapter. Some plot relevant matters occur here, but it can be read as an independent side story.

* * *

><p>"<em>Rage, rage against the dying of the light."<em>

– _Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night"_

* * *

><p><em>Kain is a little concerned.<em>

_Clearly, there is a boot on his chest. And clearly, this is something he should be reacting to. But he is not. His eyes stay closed, and while he hears himself groaning, he is not thinking of how he got here, or who this man is, or why he is alive. He is not even thinking of the others, of Lightning, of how to find them and get home. _

_He is thinking of Cecil Harvey. He is thinking of Rosa Joanna Farrell. _

_It is an afternoon he remembers, and it is cold, and it smells of pine. Beneath his feet, the dirt of the Baron training yard is hard and impacted and almost frozen through. _

_He and Cecil are sixteen, this afternoon. And when they face each other, Cecil holds a spear; he, a blade._

_Reversal is the exercise today._

_The duel begins as it usually does. They circle one another, and the strikes are probing, much like play. Here is a lazy overhand strike. There is a light block and then a parry; a feint, followed by a tap. They are smiling. Neither of them really tries. _

_They warm up; they ready themselves for this fight and every fight thereafter. They ready themselves for tomorrow, the day each will choose his path. _

_Kain feels good today. He feels good because the future seems a straight line. He will be a dragoon, Cecil a knight of the Red Wings. He will fly unaided, while Cecil will rely on oil and spring. And so today he is not jealous that Rosa's eyes do not follow him. Today he does not care that the apples she brought are not for him to taste._

_Today, he is practicing for tomorrow. And tomorrow, he will rule the world. _

_Kain is aware that memories are prone to exaggeration. They are color saturated; they are too-loud and sentimental. Somewhere, there is always the playing of music or the singing of skylarks. But even so, he recollects of that afternoon that the sun was bright as diamonds are bright. That the wind was a living thing, and the blade in his hand had good weight, good balance, good speed. _

_The trade in blows rises in a slow acceleration. Kain swings his body in a two handed block of Cecil's forward strike. It is a stronger blow that he believes Cecil capable of, and he inhales sharply in shock and surprise. _

_Blade crushes to haft and Kain pushes him back. And before they commence their dance again, they stare. Cecil's eyes are apologetic, and Kain does not know why this fills him with rage. _

_When they resume, Kain's blows are wilder. He makes them now with intent._

_The sound that rises on the new winter air is the song that steel sings when it's warring. And while Kain remembers his fury, he remembers this too. And he remembers it was beautiful, or at least he found it so._

_Cecil's confession is a blow unto itself. He will become a Dark Knight, he says somewhere in a parry. And while he will fly with the Red Wings, he will do so in black armor, and he thinks Kain should come with him. To the end._

"_Please," he says. "My brother. My friend."_

_There are moments, Kain knows now, that narrow the path that tomorrow can take. And if he is honest, which he can never guarantee, he might admit that these were words that changed his life. _

_It's possible. But even now when he looks back, his anger is the sharpest thing. A bright red pennant that sails the winter sky. _

_Cecil will do as the King has asked; what Kain refuses to do. And he will have the honor and the standards; the roses and she who is named for them. And he will buy them with death and be loved for it. _

_Yes, he will do what Kain does not have the stones for. And while Kain does not know if it is fear that grips him, or rage, he only knows that this path will spoil everything. And __afterwards __it will not be how it's supposed to be. _

_Beneath the dark armor, Cecil will rot or die. The death magic will hollow him out. And if it does not do so quickly, it will do so by inches. Cut by cut, it will feed. Take a tithe of flesh for every single kill. Until there's nothing left. Of him; of them. A husk of a man will be all that remains, and still Cecil will have more than most could ever dare dream. Certainly more than Kain, who will be left without Rosa, without Baron, and now without even a friend… _

_Kain does not know why he needs these people so much. He hates it._

_In this moment, rational words are lost to Kain, so insults spoil his tongue. He says his friend has no mind of his own, and that this will not turn the King into his father. He calls him a martyr, a dreamer, a fool. Cecil, of course, says only one thing. But it's all the worse for that._

"_You're a coward, Kain," are the words that he says. And even now, after so long, they still burn._

_The memory Kain has of the duel after that is all iron, and grit and sweat; all impact and anger and **why** won't you fall?_

_With every step, it becomes clearer that Cecil is going to win. His smile is vicious and magnanimous; he's rubbing it in, but there's nothing Kain can do._

_Again, he wonders why it is that everyone views Cecil as so pure._

_The song in the air turns sour. The movement of his left hand is too wild, too unrestrained. And while he's aware he's better with a blade than Cecil is with a spear, he loses his grip anyway. The tip of Cecil's spear finds the pommel of his sword, and then he's standing unarmed and defeated and ridiculously young._

_The endless sky wheels above him. He can see straight through to the stars. _

"_Yield," Cecil says._

"_Not to you," Kain replies._

_If pressed, Kain will say that of all of these memories, the clearest is the one of him cheating. Of the smile that he smiles as Cecil's jaw cracks beneath his fist. He will want to say that he enjoyed it, but he can't because he remembers those eyes. _

_They are sad, Cecil's strange eyes. And they are angry, and betrayed. _

_Kain still does not understand how he let himself believe that **he** was the noble one; the one who would not buy the King's favor with blood…_

_It will be Rosa who separates them, as she always does. She will run from the parapet and she will push them apart; she will offer them smiles, and she will act as if the apples were always for sharing. She will hook her two arms through both of theirs until they form a chain, they three._

"_My boys," she will say brightly, and for a time, they will all believe. For a time thereafter, they will laugh, and Cecil will train, and Kain will accept, and the weight of the afternoon will not be so heavy as he thought at the time. _

_Time will pass. And Kain will lie to himself, and think things well when they are not. _

_That a life can turn on such an insignificant lie as this is a fact that Kain still cannot accept. And while the boot on his chest demands he heed the present, he falls ceaselessly back to the past. _

_Every time he remembers it, it is still the same. And although he would trade half his soul to change it, he cannot. The contempt remains. The anger remains. The failure remains. _

_He always makes the same mistakes. He retraces his steps, and they lead him back to himself, each time._

_As the pain seeps into his senses, Kain wonders how wrong a man is permitted to be in his life. And if it is not this, in the end, that will eventually manage to kill him._

* * *

><p>In his more contemplative moments, Gabranth is certain that very little of him remains beneath the Judge Magister's armor. He takes it off rarely, these days. And while it burns in this heat, and the stench of his own waste bakes in the leather and stews in the steel, he nevertheless prefers it to the sight of his body.<p>

Gabranth is not a weak or feebly made man. He has more faith in his own strength than he has the in the sun or the seas or the deserts of Rabanastre. Still, he'll take the metal over the flesh. It looks more like him, he thinks. It is more appropriate to his role.

Rolling the body beneath his boot, Gabranth grunts, thinks a bit on masquerades. The other men and women who donned this armor had all thought as he. They'd all known the truth.

Dress a whore in the robes of the Empress and people will bend their knee. Drape power in the pretty words of the law and people will put their head on the block for any reason you choose.

All men are fools. He doubts still that any in Archadia know the armor of the Judge Magister to be the mask of the executioner. At one point, it had made him _proud,_ this insight. He'd gloried in the understanding that there was no truth but power; imagined that this held him someplace above the masses who keened over love; over honor and nobility and pride.

_Much like that fool Basch_, Gabranth rolls his sore shoulder, shakes his sore head. _Much like this garbage before me. _

He doesn't think that way anymore. Truly – _truly_ – he does not care. All he wishes for now is to complete this Sisyphean farce of a task and get a drink of water.

Lifting his foot from Kain's chest, Gabranth sighs, lands a swift hard kick to the other man's ribs. A few give way beneath his boot. _Yes, water might help_.

Through his visor, Gabrath surveys the dog in the dirt before him and sneers. On the ash-defiled earth, Kain Highwind stays still and unmoving. Arrogant features that Gabranth can tell descend from highborn stock are relaxed, and Gabranth stifles the urge to crush the peace from his face.

He'd do so, if the Dragon had not bid him administer this trial. And while the Rift has many Emperors, Gabranth knows to whom he must bend his knee. Orders are orders. And Gabranth understands orders well.

"_Let them fight you,"_ Lord Shinryu hisses in his ear, _"to return to the war of the gods_._"_

Unwittingly, Gabranth's reminded of an old myth. Of the small god Prometheus; he who gave fire to men and was nightly punished for the mercy. Chained to the side of a mountain, every evening his guts were eaten out by vultures. Every morning they grew back anew. An endless cycle of slow dying, all for the sin of defying greater gods; all for the sake of men who scarce remember his name.

Lowering his gorget for a second, Gabranth spits on Kain's face, watches the trail of it cut a path through the grime. All these so-called warriors – all the refuse that falls into his lair, whose tales Shinryu whispers into his ears – are something like Prometheus. Endlessly, they die; meat for the Rift's great vulture. Except their sacrifice is even more hollow; more stupid and vain and ill-advised.

The Dragon tortures them and grows fat on their pain. And he will continue to do so until he can breach the Door of Souls and consume their spirits again.

_It's pathetic_. But it's also irrelevant. Gabranth has been set a task and he'll discharge it. Besides, he's come to appreciate the quiet of this place. Here, no conspiracies sink in his ears, speaking to him of petty intrigues. Here there is only rust, and it is silent as it corrodes.

Heat blurs the air around him, and Gabranth is sick of the taste of slag. His dry mouth longs for water, and waiting is tiresome. Looking down at Kain, he makes an attempt to speed matters along. "Rise," he grunts, kicking the broken ribs again. "_Rise._"

Nothing happens, and Gabranth grows tired.

"I know you hear me, dog." Out of patience, Gabranth kneels and places his knee square in the center of Kain's torso. Raising a gauntleted fist, he cracks the other man once across the jaw. Once. Twice. Three times. "Do _not_ play dead with me."

It is something of a surprise to Gabranth that when Kain Highwind stirs in earnest, he does so violently. The eyes go wild with confusion for only a second before they focus and sharpen and see the steel that's descending on his face. More quickly than Gabranth expects, an unbroken left hand comes up to block a fourth blow.

His nose is bleeding. His lips are curled. "Get off me," he says.

"Well met, traitor." Gabranth can barely contain his contempt.

Kain ignores the insult. "Get _off me_," he says again. "Now."

"Silence." Gabranth leans down, and the shadow of his helm darkens Kain's face. "I will state rules. You will abide them. Do you understand?"

Amusement rumbles from the chest beneath Gabranth's knee, followed by a wracking cough. "Of course I do." The words slide over a bloody smirk. "You are making me repeat myself."

Gabranth knots his brow. He is irritating, this one. His headache plucks the nerve behind his left eye, and he stills it by closing his fist and crashing it into Kain's jaw again. Ribbons of blood slither over his gauntlet, bright red against onyx and gold. "When you are asked a question by your better, it is wise that you answer it. Now, do you understand?"

A flash of violence crosses Kain's face, and for a moment, Gabranth thinks he may be stupid enough to attempt escape. Lazily, he pushes down on Kain's larynx and waits for a more appropriate reply.

When Kain finally nods his assent, Gabranth is almost disappointed to pull his fist from the other man's throat. Aggravated, he shakes his gauntlet free of blood and scraps of flesh before he stands. "Wise," he says.

It takes some time for Kain to get up. He moves slowly, with his hand at his broken ribs. He makes no sound of discomfort, though. And while his eyes are half shadowed by strings of filthy hair, they linger only a second too long on the broken spine of his spear.

For a moment, they simply stare at one another. And despite himself, Gabranth cannot help but recognize the weariness in the slump of Kain's shoulders, the flatness in his gaze.

He does not know why exactly this infuriates him.

Blood drips from Kain's nose to his lips, drops to the rust below. He doesn't bother wiping it away. "I assume there's something you want from me."

Gabranth makes a sharp, bitter sound. "Wrong, dog. There's something you want from me."

The edges of Kain's mouth twitch, but they don't make it all the way to a smirk. "Really now?" The question drips mockery. "No. I think not."

Gabranth pauses a moment before he replies, considers his words. "Much has been said of you, Kain Highwind," he spits eventually. "That you are prideful of your station and disloyal to your King. That you are weak and petty and a fool. It appears I was not mislead."

Kain blinks. The sound of his name has captured his attention, apparently. "Who are you?"

Gabranth watches a single drop of Kain's blood trace the angle of his clenched jaw. It quivers; tense and unsure of its own direction. "A gatekeeper," he answers after a while. "You've fallen far to this pit. If you wish to crawl out, you must go through me."

Straightening, Kain finally raises his hand to wipe the mess from his face, and the drop of blood that Gabranth has been watching collapses into an edgeless smear. Rage simmers in his eyes. "Where am I?"

"Where all traitors go when they die," Gabranth answers, crossing his arms. "Hell."

* * *

><p><em>Kain does not allow himself to think too closely on the Tower of Zot, even though it looms in the center of his mind. It is a long shadow lost in a longer night; and sometimes when he is just waking or just falling asleep, he sees the blade that hung over Rosa's long, white neck, just glinting.<em>

'_It's not sharp enough' is the thought he always has when the image drifts over his eyes. Her neck will be crushed, not severed. She will take longer to die, this way._

_Kain remembers everything, but not exactly. Like a light-soaked reflection in water, it changes…he can never be sure..._

_All he knows is that a part of him never leaves this place. He is always here and she is always here and these were things that happened. To both of them. To all of them._

_The memories come to him in fragments, the night Golbez's spells were reapplied. It was after he did not or could not kill Cecil. He sinned, and in chains he waits to be punished. He is on his knees. He will never get up._

_Kain recalls noises that are not human words. Rumors traverse his unspooling mind; whispered by the fiends who rule air and fire and water and death. Their voices scratch the sides of his skull, but he cannot close his ears. Nonsense, they sound of nonsense, and it drifts through his hollow mind._

_The content of these conspiracies is something Kain can't fathom. After some time, he views this as a merciful thing. _

_He is almost conscious; but then again, he is not. Rubicante has cast Slow on his mind, and he cannot think. Everything is murk and dark. Everything is pain._

_Everything that is not hate, that is. Everything that is not 'Please-I-am-sorry-make-it stop.'_

_The stone floor is rough and his knees are skinned. His flesh is clammy. They have taken all his clothes._

"_My Lord, I **will** kill him," are words Kain thinks he blubbered, but he really can't be sure. The more important features of the memory involve a dry and open mouth; wrists abraded by chains; shoulders that have gone loose in their sockets. "I am sorry, I will kill him; I am sorry, I promise I will…"_

_Kain is furious that he cannot remember it the same way twice. It always seems as if he is missing something; as if it the moment was a song he knew once, but now he cannot remember the words._

_He is very cold, as cold as he has ever been; but still, not so cold as the eyes that bore into him, that rest – as all mocking eyes do – on all the things he hides. They are almost as Cecil's eyes are, pale as dust in the dawn. Except they are malignant and they are far too bright; carnival tricks in a carnival night._

_Golbez._

_Theodor Harvey, but he did not know that then. Beholden to the same magic as he, but also, he did not know that then. _

_Kain recalls the words: "You failed," and they are gentle and urbane and true. _

_Does Barbariccia make it so cold here? Is that the smell of Scarmiglione's dying flesh? Kain wants to struggle, but the chains are too tight, and he is too feeble and the lord of fire has pressed a burning hand to his face._

"_Ready yourself, dragoon," he says. "You may die today."_

_Rubicante will heal him so the touch will leave no scar. But Kain will remember the sound of his own screaming, the smell of his own burning skin._

_How many moments – Kain lets himself think – have passed between that one and now? And yet, he still cannot remember exactly why it was he wept. The pain was not so great. The tears, however, were sharp and slender, and they fell swiftly down his face._

_In the days he does not hate himself, he believes that it is regret that wet his eyes. Because he is loyal, and he is valiant and he did not want to kill his friend. In the days in which he does, he insists it was because he was just too weak, either to resist or embrace his own hate; to kill the man as is fair, with pride and no hesitation._

_It is of course Rosa who stopped him; whose eyes knocked his spear to the floor. She saves them, but then, she is always saving them. It is her arms that hold them together; it is her arms that keep them apart._

_She is upstairs and her screaming keeps him sane. In every version of this memory, this is the only thing that stays the same. That, and the laughter of fiends. _

"_You failed." Golbez' voice comes again. "And we shall have to pull the leash."_

_The Lamia is the part that Kain despises most. In his memory, she has no face, but her tail coils round his waist, and her fingers rake his chest and play in his hair. The tongue she twirls in his ear is wet and exact and slips all the way inside._

"_Kill, kill," she whispers. "Take, take."_

"_You heard her," Golbez purrs. "You know what to do." _

_He does not want to feel pleasure at the touch of a snake, but he does. He does not want to believe what she says, but he does. His shattered mind believes; her voice weaves the fragments to sense. _

_Kain wants so much to think that there is a part of his mind that is screaming. But he can't tell anymore. It all felt so…good. So heady and black and free._

_With dead-cold fingers, the Lamia traces his throat and lips, and Kain does not know where his soul goes. _

_The spell is dark and he falls into it. It is bottomless and he cannot swim up. Everything feels the same to him; the love and the hate, the lust and the shame, the want and need and **obey**._

_Kain thinks what he wants most in this moment is to break Cecil's neck. For the angle to shift and go wrong beneath his hands. Or perhaps he wants to take everything Cecil is; his glory and his goodness and the soft thighs of his woman – the light that he sees in all things... _

_Then again, it's possible all he wants is revenge. Because chance sent him down the side of a mountain, and it is Cecil's fault he's chained here. That he's on his knees in the dark, so afraid and so cold; so naked and owned and ashamed._

_After this, there will never be a human mirror that will show Kain a man he wants to see. He has long ago left off caring about it, but it is true, nevertheless. _

_Kain cannot tell whose thoughts are whose. Golbez is in his mind and in his heart; what he sees he sees with Golbez' eyes. He does not know where he stops and this other man begins and perhaps there is no difference._

_On some later night when they are watching the Blue Planet crest over the cratered moon, Rosa will place her hand on his and tell him not to trust how he felt. She will say that the spells are old and cruel; that they are illusion and smoke and Lunarian lies. But he believed her once when he should not have, so he does not believe her then._

_When the snake uncoils from his body, Kain's mind is a cavern the wind blows through. He will do as asked, on command._

_What Kain cannot account for is everything that happens next. The binding, the lightning spells, the pain. He feels weight of Pressure bear down on him, and his arms and legs don't move. He's trapped, and when Golbez lays a frozen hand on the back of his neck, there is nothing he can do. Thurdara seizes his muscles and sears his nerves and he'd vomit if the paralysis would release him._

_The pain is exquisite and unending, but the light that riots in his eyes is gold as a winter-bright sun._

_Kain will hear Golbez whisper that the mind must be soft for the spells to settle. That electricity burns new pathways in the brain. Of course, he will not say why he leaves Kain to the fiends. But then again, the answer to that is obvious enough. _

_It is a reminder and warning, the torture. It is so that Kain will never again forget who is the one that serves here, and who is the one that eats._

_There is no name for the hate he feels. There is no direction for it. It consumes everything else he is._

_The things that Barbariccia does to him are written on his body. She carves the name of malice in his skin. Kain chooses not to think too hard upon it, but he remembers the patterns the blood splashed on the floor; he remembers he tried very hard not to scream._

_Above him, Rosa calls his name along with Cecil's, and Kain will never forget the sound. And while he hears her voice collapse with screeching, he knows it is not for him she cries. _

_Eventually, he will look in her eyes and almost kill her. And although she forgives him, everything will change. _

_They will break and stay broken. He will leave and not come back. She will never bring him apples again. _

_In the present, Kain wonders if there is there is anything he would not trade for another chance, anything he would not give so this wound would cease bleeding._

* * *

><p>Among men who know steel, few words are necessary. And while there is much in Kain Highwind's story that begs to be mocked, this – and perhaps this alone – is something Gabranth can respect.<p>

It did not take much for him to agree to this duel. A few sparse terms. A promise that Shinryu would revive his depleted spirit enough to rejoin his allies. A taunt:

"_Pity the traitor_. _For he shall never be redeemed."_

To his credit, the mongrel yipped nothing in reply.

In the pulsing heat, they prowl around each other. At their feet, featureless debris grinds to orange dust. The sword Kain holds in guard over his chest half consumed by corrosion, and Gabranth cannot help but think it fitting.

It is a short, brittle battle they will fight here today. Over nothing, and for nothing. And they will duel until one of them lies here amongst the garbage, as discarded and forgotten as everything else.

Magma casts a fevered pallor over the field, and heaps of melted wreckage fester like open sores upon the land. Broken swords conspire in skeletons of rust, and in their jagged shadows dry corpses stretch out their hands. Idly, Gabranth wonders what it was they died reaching for.

Closing his left eye against the accelerating pain in his head, he raises Deathbringer and watches the squalid light drip down its edge. It matters not. Whatever it was, the bastards died empty-handed. He may even have killed a few of them himself, though he cannot remember a single name.

Across from him, Kain has dropped his guard and raised his sword. He is waiting for salute. And because Gabranth remains a creature of ceremony, he nods and crosses the blade with his own.

The x-shaped shadow drifts long across the ground, and they stare at each other a moment before their weapons shear away. Ash sails between them, and perhaps it is the headache, but for some reason when Gabranth looks at them he's reminded of the bonfires of Lowtown…the way the cedar popped and splintered in the heavy summer night…

Blood still pours from Kain's nose. When he speaks, his mouth is thick with it. "Begin," is all he says.

Wasting no more time in thinking, Gabranth does. Wanting to end this quickly, he rolls all the force of his pent up rage into the brutal descent of an overhead strike. War designed this dance; fury guides it; and by the time he is halfway through his swing he half expects this to be a one hit kill.

It is not.

Kain is skilled enough at swordplay to know he lacks the strength to parry. With surprising speed, he steps back, and when Gabranth uses the momentum of the miss to spin his blade back to ready, it is only just in time to block a heavy cut. Screaming, the rusted edge crashes over the strong of Deathbringer, and the impact clatters the joints of the Judge Magister's armor. He feels it jolt through his bones.

Piercing and mineral, the smell of iron oxide slides through Gabranth's flared nostrils. He does not enjoy much these days, but oh, how he loves that smell. _It is orderly_, he thinks, using his leverage to force Kain off the block. _It is_ _clean_.

Kain shuffles backwards over the rubble and holds his blade back in a diagonal guard. The first entente concluded, he finally – _slowly, as if savoring the taste _– spits the blood from his mouth. Smirking, he asks, "That all?"

It is unnecessary for Gabranth to answer. He is not so easily goaded. Squinting his eyes against the oily red light, he only lifts his sword again and begins the battle in truth.

The next few moments are a blur to even Gabranth. There is the crashing ring of iron and the dry crush of debris. There is the rank sweat that gathers in his armpits and bakes into his mail. There are flakes of rust, so many flakes of rust, and they clog his nose and coat his tongue and they lend each wracking blow the bitter taste of metal.

Gabranth has never fooled himself into thinking he fights with grace. Brute strength and relentlessness have guided his hand since he first picked up a blade, and this is no different. So while Kain's corroded sword cuts shapely patterns in the drifting ash, Deathbringer knows only one trajectory: down; _through._ Eventually, Gabranth's shoulder begins to burn, and the ache stretches through his nerves as the blade descends _again_ – Kain blocks – _again_ – a circular parry – _again – _and _**there**_, _finally,_ it is. First drawn blood.

It is a glancing blow only; the sword just grazes Kain's neck. But the cut is there, and it bleeds, and the black magick in the blade purrs, satisfied. The sound of his own pulse whispers in Gabranth's ears as Deathbringer's dark enchantments leech strength from the open wound. Stolen strength surges in his veins, and beneath the steel glower of the Judge Magister's helm, he smiles.

Eventually this sword will demand a price for the power it lends him. For every life taken, it will take a measure of his. But that time is not now. _No_. Gabranth grits his teeth through another attack, closes his ears against the crash of steel. _Now it howls for other blood._

Grunting, Kain retreats, blade up in a ready guard. He tries not to let the confusion play over his face, but it's obvious anyway. Freak-violet eyes narrow and the rotten, highborn lips twitch. From a creased brow, beads of sweat glisten then bake to dullness in the punishing heat.

The skin of Kain's knuckles goes tight around the hilt of his blade. He breathes heavily. "What magic is this?"

Stepping forward, Gabranth snorts, swings Deathbringer in a vicious, elegant arc. Shadow magick lingers in its wake, silent and intent. "Surely," he sneers, "you are not so stupid as all that."

"Do not speak to me in riddles."

"Do not play so great a fool."

The block Kain throws up in his defense is hesitant, off balance. This is not his weapon, and this low-ceilinged chamber is far from the open sky. There will be no dragoon trickery here. Just the killing simplicity of steel on steel. As it should be. _As is just._

Gabranth presses his attack, and Kain cannot keep pace with the pressure. Whether from confusion or exhaustion or both, his strikes lose their discipline; they do not land with such force. A parry that should close stays open, and Gabranth crashes his blade through the gap. The blocks are awkward and strange – _they beg for the haft of a spear – _and under the heavy rain of his blows they grow fragile and easy to break.

Strangled by smoke and whirling ash, no light dances off of Kain's weapon. It makes the jerky, incoherent gestures of defeat, and Gabranth can almost taste clean water on his tongue.

As befits the chopping of meat, Gabranth wields Deathrbringer as a cleaver now. Every crashing blow he lands sends magick jolting through his veins. They trade steps, Kain and he. Each one Gabranth gains, Kain loses, and when he finally breaks the man's feeble guard and slides the sword through the soft flesh of his shoulder, it slices easily through flesh and muscle and tendon.

The skin is bruised and unguarded. It offers little by way of defense.

Kain cries out, and the scream sounds tortured from his throat. In a wash of cursed magick, he doubles over, and Gabranth feels nothing but heady satisfaction as the point of the sword sticks into bone. He resists the urge to twist the blade.

Smirking, Gabranth leans over Kain's semi-prone body, turns the steel lips of the Judge Magister's helm until they brush away sweaty strands of hair and rest against his ear. He can feel the man's shudder of disgust; he can smell the stink of his fear. "Yield," he whispers.

Uncut muscles tense around Gabranth's blade and shift its balance, and he thinks he hears only a soft chuckle in reply.

The rush of wind that accompanies the dragoon's jump races around the chamber, and for a second Gabranth is confused. He does not quite understand how a man who was just now impaled on his blade has managed to pry himself free, vanish back somewhere into the blackened wreckage of the chamber. But it doesn't matter. Kain cannot hide from him, not here. Gabranth has called this place home for so long, he barely has memory of any landscape but this. There is no inch of this ruined place he does not know, that he cannot see – that he does not _always _see – when he closes his eyes.

Eventually, Gabranth catches sight of him, standing on a high pile of rubble some fifteen or twenty feet from where they were. His right arm hangs limp and useless at his side, and while his left still holds his blade, the grip is loose and untrustworthy. After a second, he plunges it into the debris, uses its uncertain strength to keep him from falling to his knees.

Gabranth takes his time walking towards him. "Did you not hear me?"

Stumbling around his own sword, Kain struggles to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, his feet from betraying his tenuous balance. It's obviously everything the man can do to stay upright, but still, when he looks up his face is a blood and crystal painted mask of rage. "_That,_" he mutters, soft and furious, "is a Dark Knight's blade. _Cecil's blade_."

"It finally seeps to your brain, then? Though you are wrong. Deathbringer is mine." Gabranth raises the sword before him again. The red of Kain's blood is indistinguishable from the lurid glow of the magma. "Your half-breed king barely has the stones to lift it. He disgusts me almost as much as you do."

"Do not speak his name. You know nothing of Cecil," Kain croaks, hoarse. The death magick that sucks at his wound has already started narrowing his arteries, closing his throat. "_Nothing._"

"I know _duty_, dog." Gabranth snaps, and the echo of his words is a tin counterpoint to the sound of grinding metal as he struggles up the pile of rubbish. "And what I have sacrificed for it."

With the limited breath in his lungs, Kain manages a pinched laugh. "You are still alive. You've not sacrificed enough for my taste."

"You deign to mock me? _You?_" Gabranth scoffs. "A traitor who kills from behind? Who lacks even the courage to own his own hate? Every man I intend to kill, I look in the eyes, Highwind." He pauses. "Even Ratsbane's brother. Even you."

Kain is leaning so heavily on his sword, the corroded metal curves and strains. His breathing is audible now, desperate. And yet…"Ratsbane?"

Gabranth shrugs. He does not shy from what he's done. And the more rage Kain feels, the deeper the magick will open up in his gut, the faster it will do its work. _The sooner this can end._ "Vaan's the name you know him by. His brother was seventeen when I killed him. His belly was soft when I ran him through."

On the back of the ash, a moment of silence drifts between them. It is interrupted only by the creak of Gabranth's armor as he draws closer and closer, closing the distance between him and his prey. Kain is on his last legs now, and just as he crests the broken hill, the man's silhouette crumples.

In shadow, his back has the bend of one already dead. Gabranth need only finish the job.

Looking down at Kain, he licks his parched lips. Beneath his dry tongue, the cracked skin is rough and tasteless. "Now what say you?" he spits, setting Deathbringer at the nape of Kain's neck, right where his head is bowed over his sword. "Do you yield or do you not?"

"_That," _Kain growls, not looking up,"is not something you ought to have told me."

"Why now?" Gabranth taunts, raising the blade to slice the man's head from his spine. "What vengeance will you take for the boy's sake?"

"No vengeance," Kain's voice is low, and the words are nearly lost to grating, metalling noise as he unsheathes his weapon from the earth. "Only pleasure. I think I shall enjoy watching you bleed."

There is no reason that Gabranth can think of to explain how Kain is able to roll out from under his strike. Nor can he account for how the block that saves the man's life manages to flash up to his neck in the split second before Deathbringer descends to the naked flesh. But as Highwind rights himself, it occurs to him that a creature as destroyed by dark magicks as this vermin was might have some tolerance for the stuff.

In concession, Gabranth snorts a short, bitter laugh. Very well. They shall finish this as they started it. One on one; steel on steel. "Have at it, then," he spits. He tries to make the words sound venomous, but for some reason, they ring hollow. Empty.

Kain angles the sword so its shadow cuts his face. "Indeed."

When they resume, something has changed in the way that Kain wields his blade. There is no exaggeration now in the strikes; no confusion. They are fast and they are precise and they do not stop. He attacks efficiently. He does not miss his jumping; he does not miss his spear. And now that he has the higher ground, Gabranth finds that it is more difficult than before to keep the blows from finding their mark.

He is tired, he realizes. From too much climbing, he assumes.

It happens slowly, and Gabranth does not believe it, but he finds himself backing up. He finds that the length of time it takes him to parry and block the rain of rusted steel lengthens. He cannot find a way to recapture his momentum, and his boots slide back down over the hill of rubble. The Judge Magister's armor is heavy, and his balance is slipping.

What he sees when he glares through the visor of his helm is a blur of ash and iron and red, red rust. He can't make out the face of his attacker. The helm disrupts his gaze, and for a second, it seems like the broken man crashing steel down around his head bears a scar between his eyes as well…

Gabranth never hates himself more than he does when he understands his own hesitation; realizes why Deathbringer's parry slides an inch too wide, turns a second too slow_. _

Seizing his advantage, Kain doesn't jump up, he jumps ahead. And suddenly Gabranth is crushed back down to the jagged rubbish below. The point of the sword has found a gap in the armor and the force of the blow tears the wind from his lungs. The mail beneath the plate is enough to keep the blade from going straight through his gut, but still, Gabranth can feel the skin splinter and break.

Fresh blood slides between steel and skin. It's sticky and itchy and too hot.

Before he knows it, Gabranth is lying in the dirt without his weapon and a hard hand is tearing the helm from his head. A knee comes to his chest followed suit by a blade to his neck, but that's not what Gabranth cares about at the moment. In fact – at the moment – he's not thinking of Kain at all.

He is thinking that the air – hot and scarred and burning as it is – feels good upon his face. And that it is has been a long, long time since he has really stopped to feel it.

Relaxing his neck, Gabranth breathes. Somewhere, he manages to find the words that he's been saving. "Do it," he says. "I care not."

Kain's face is filled with revulsion. "Why should I give you anything you want?"

A slow smile turns his lips. He can feel the blood from the wound spread over the small hairs on his chest and stomach. It is wet and slow, like a caress. "Killing me is what _you _want," he replies. "Now, have the strength to do it."

* * *

><p><em>It happens only once. They never speak of it again.<em>

_They are in the armory, and Kain is uninterested in talking. What he is interested in is forging a new blade for Gungir. _

_Cosmos would have made him one, had he asked. Even though he suspects she knows the use he intends to put it to. But he prefers to do the work himself. There is something cleansing in the heat of it. The shoulder strain. The sweat. _

_It is a blade with which he will turn traitor. As such, Kain feels as if the hands that craft it should be his. Besides, this will be his last blade. When he leaves Sanctuary this time, he will not come back. _

_Lightning stands behind him and watches him work. She keeps whatever words she has__ folded in her mouth, and her eyes trained on her back. There is no doubt that she notices the ferocity of these strikes and their angle, their force._

_She is one who notices much, but Kain decides he does not care. _

_Let her stop him, if she can. _

_The hammer descends and he feels the impact in his teeth. Cecil's blood will coat this edge, and Kain wonders when – if ever – it will stop. He has had Cecil's blood on his hands for too many years, in too many ways. Since first he pulled the dark armor's teeth from that lunar-white back. Since first he pressed this blade of this weapon to that lunar-white throat. _

"_Yield." Kain feels Golbez's words in his mouth – angular and rough - but does not fight them._

"_Not to you." Kain is aware from whose lips Cecil robbed the words, but thinks only of the bitterness in his face as he said them._

_Even now Kain does not know if it was with rage or fear or sorrow. Or violence, barely leashed. It is not an answer he wants, necessarily._

"_I am sorry, Cecil." He says the worlds silently, but still they taste of ash. They reek of repetition. _

_Kain's mind returns to these thoughts again and again in different shapes, at different tides; as waves return to the shore. He smashes a hammer into molten Damascus steel, and sparks spill through the air._

"_I am sorry." Saying it again does not make it better. But he does so, anyway._

_His mind despises him for wanting yet more forgiveness, yet more reprieve. There are times he feels he is addicted to it. Like some men are to drink or flesh or poppies. At times, he wishes he were like those men, that he had those hungers. They are more easily sated._

_Kain hears her rap her fingers on the doorframe of the armory. He hears her click her tongue against the top of her mouth. The sounds tap his skull. They are agitating. _

_Again, he wonders why she's here, why it seems she is always here. He does not know why she seeks his counsel; what answers she proposes to take from him; what she sees when she sets hawk-sharp eyes where they do not belong. _

_He doesn't want her to stay. He doesn't want her to leave. He doesn't know what to think of her, other than he views her as well-named._

_He wants her naked beneath him, too. But then, he wants many things. Desire is thing that he is accustomed to. Equally, its restraint. _

_Grunting ,Kain sends the hammer down again. Another time, another place, perhaps he would have wanted her to weep for him. He would have viewed her as worthy of mourning his lost honor, his lost name. But now is not that time. He has no need for any man's pity, nor any woman's tears. _

_He neither needs them nor desires them. They are meaningless to him and to this task._

"_You are luckier than I, friend" Cecil told him once, in the barracks, in the infinite promise of seventeen. "They expect nothing of you."_

_Very well then, Cecil. The words are true, and it is truth that he will use. What he does here is not redemption. But it is something. And Kain has learned that he must take what he can salvage of the man he once imagined himself to be._

_Once – he thinks, and the irony is too bitter, even for him – upon a time._

_Lightning remains silent, even though they usually talk. It is the ordinary course of events with them that she will ask a question and he will mock a response. Or he will remark on her lack of sense and she will smirk and continue to lack sense before she charges off in some manner that appears engineered to irritate him. _

_This is new for them, this silence. As is her hand between his shoulder blades. He stops what he is doing, and he places the blade on the anvil and he listens to her breathe._

_A moment passes, and the warmth of her hand is almost too much. Her fingers are slender. They assume the shape of his scars. _

_Kain tenses, navel to shoulder, and he wants, for a second, to take it all back. He does not want to do what he has sworn to do. He does not want to run this blade through Cecil's back. He does not wish for this woman to despise him, as she most certainly will._

_A crack forms in his resolve. Its size is infinitesimal, but it is there. And it asks him to consider – yet again – being a good man. _

_She is tired; he reads her fingers as they curl. And she is weak from the attacks as he is weak from the attacks, and if she continues as she is, she will fall. He doesn't want that either. Because while she believes herself a monster, Kain does not. And he likes the feel of her hand where it rests on his skin. _

_She speaks finally, and when she does, it's one of the three things she says to him that night. Her voice is tired and distant and alone. "This is getting old, Highwind." _

_He replies with a low chuckle, a "You're right," an exhalation that sounds of a sigh. "Although I'd not have thought you the kind. To be troubled by such a mundane thing as age."_

_Under her breath, she laughs a rare, private laugh and Kain is surprised that he finds it pleasant. It has been some time since he has found something so. Since the Baron of his youth; since the unburdened laughter he traded once with the King and Queen of his homeland, when there was nothing between them but the dry scent of winter. _

_It occurs to Kain that he is not young anymore. That he will never be young again._

_The blade on the anvil still glows red with intent. It asks him if he dares destroy even this. He does not know the answer. _

_Coming forward, she sets a sticky brow against his back, and he comes close to just telling her. He thinks perhaps he was wrong, and that if he tells her, there may still be another way out for them. Her breath on his spine is wet and it charges to his groin, and for a second, he closes his eyes._

_The heat that pulses between them is not from the fire. _

_Kain does not know exactly how it happens, but he remembers how she tastes. He has memorized it. Salt, he will decide, when thinks upon it later, in those weeks he spent alone. Sharp breath. The iron of blood from where her teeth gnash his lips. There is a crushing of bodies, a duel of hands that pull or push or grab, a kiss so hard it would feel like pain or consumption, if it her cutting mouth did not fit so well on his. _

_She tastes of smoke or carbon; of everything that is not apples._

_She winds her leg around his waist and he slams her against a weapons rack. He is certain that the steel digs into her flesh, but she makes no sound of complaint. He presses his hand to her branded breast, and she makes sounds that spike through his nerves. And while it is possible they are using each other, it does not feel that way._

_In the silence, there is only the slide of sweat-slick limbs that yearn for something better; something more._

_The second thing she says to him that night is 'Claire.' Her name. It is whispered to him at some broken point when his hands are twisted in her hair. He whispers it back, and for a moment that will not stop, they are sharing a secret. _

_Honor. It's something like honor he feels, when she trusts him with this thing. _

_The greediest part of him wants to keep it. He clutches it with hands he has not felt worthy of such a thing for some time. _

_Strangely enough, it is this that stops him. This that guides his arms as he throws her away. He is not an honorable man. Not then and not now. _

_He remembers Cecil's eyes and Rosa's screaming and he knows this to be true. Though perhaps in the end, it is dishonor that will save her. Save Cecil. _

_Save him._

_It is such romantic nonsense, but Kain finds he cannot stop believing it's true._

_With a soot blackened hand, he wipes the remains of her kiss from his lips. He makes sure that she sees it. He narrows his eyes in contempt. He makes sure she sees that, too. He turns away. _

_He is glad he cannot see her face._

"_Whatever," Lightning says. It's the last thing she says to him. It's the last thing she will say to him until they meet again over the length of Gungir. And while they will never speak of this, it will linger between them as an unopened letter, a locked door. _

_When she leaves, her footsteps haunt his ears. And as he raises his hammer back to the virgin blade, still yet unformed, it dawns on him. _

_Perhaps he will always be a traitor, after all._

* * *

><p>The duel is over, but the air between Kain and Gabranth stays heavy. It is laden with heat and ash; it is filled with the wheedling demands of an unanswered challenge.<p>

Swollen drops of Kain's blood splash on his face, but Gabranth doesn't look away. He just stares and watches and waits. Pain and disgust and anger flicker over the patrician features in equal measure, but no sentence has been decided, no judgment rendered.

In shuddering, concentric circles, pain radiates from the gash in Gabranth's stomach. The blood has dried somewhat, but still he can feel the ragged lips of the wound flap as he breathes. It hurts like a whore bitch, but for some reason he finds it comforting. He did not expect to lose, but of ways to die, this seems acceptable enough.

It is the only way, Gabranth reasons, to leave this armor with some measure of honor. And for the first time in what seems like a thousand years, he feels as if he would not mind taking it off.

Kain breaks the silence with an accusation that he spits in Gabranth's face. "Do you think me a fool?" He's so close when he growls the words that Gabranth can smell the rancid breath. "I've told lies enough to know them well. You left yourself open, there at the last. Explain."

Gabranth rolls his head, looks away. Sharp debris spikes the tender flesh of his cheek, and he inhales deeply of dirt and steel. "I owe you nothing, traitor. Now end this, or I will know what you truly are."

Kain pushes the blade harder against his neck, and the toothy imperfections in the edge tease and pull his skin. "And what, pray tell, is that?"

"A coward," he whispers without a single moment's pause. "A failure. A _waste_."

If there is a thing that Gabranth knows well, it is how to read a man's face in a time of judgment. By the turn of lips and the set of a jaw, he can tell whether a prisoner will go to sentence at peace with their measure, whether they have soiled themselves, or if indeed there is one in the crowd that is dear to them. One who will watch, no matter what the verdict, with eyes that do not condemn. But gazing up at Kain Highwind, for the first time Gabranth does not quite know what he's looking at, what he sees.

Gabranth lets his eyelids drop and does not think about Bast. He will not permit himself to do so. He will simply wait and let retribution come to him for once.

"You really killed the boy's brother?" Kain asks.

"Aye," Gabranth replies. He does not care to open his eyes. "I did. I would do it again."

The weight on the blade rises, and Gabranth feels content. He waits for gentle-armed blackness to brush the sight from his eyes, the tightness from his breast. And yet, just as he anticipates the splitting of skin, the opening of his throat, the pressure comes off and there is only the clatter of steel skipping over loose rubble as the sword is thrown to some forgotten corner of the chamber.

_Damn it, _are the only words he thinks.

"I knew it." Gabranth's eyes sail open and his lips curl to a sneer. "I knew you'd not – " he starts again, but before the words can leave his mouth Kain's fist has come down on his face. For a second, Gabranth feels a flash of respect. He wants to think that perhaps Highwind will do this with his bare hands, but the blows that land do not have killing strength in them. They are hard, but they are not fatal, and as Gabranth feels the flesh on his face tear and his teeth come up from his gums, all he can think is that if Kain believes this is mercy, then he is even more facile than he thought.

When the punches finally slow, Gabranth licks the blood from his ruined lips. "You admit your cowardice, then?" he asks. "This is not an honorable thing you do here, Highwind."

"Perhaps not," Kain muses, and rising, he turns away. His right arm is a rigid pendulum of flesh, but when he speaks again, there's a soft hint of mirth in his voice. It grates on Gabranth's raw nerves. "But who said I was an honorable man? Now I've passed your cursed trial. Send me back."

Gabranth rolls to a sitting position, wipes the blood and mucous from his face. With his chin, he gestures to a black gate in the distance; the path of the Stolen Crown. "Your way back to the war of the gods is there, Highwind. May Cosmos welcome you."

Pivoting back towards him, Kain's filthy brows knot. The fool seems somehow surprised. "I'm uninterested in returning to my allies in Dissidia," he says. "It's the others, those that fell with me at the Empyreal Paradox. Return me to _them._"

Gabranth pauses before answering. It takes much to raise his laughter. In fact, if there is one thing about his life he still cannot recall, it is the last time that he had a good chuckle. It starts slowly, bubbling from his diaphragm and gaining momentum as it fords up his throat. And what starts as a quiet chuckle swells into a gale of cackles. He laughs so hard that his sight blurs, that he doubles over his own wound.

_Of all the…_

Perhaps he is capable of being surprised after all. Even now, in such a ridiculous state as this. Going back to Dissidia is one thing, but to stay _here…_

Gabranth cannot stop laughing. Tears line his eyelids; his chest heaves for breath. "You wish to return to the _Rift?_"

"If that is where my allies are" – Kain's eyes darken – " then yes. What of it?"

"Beg pardon, then." Gabranth's reply is patchy and breathless. With his right arm, he makes a weak gesture off to the distance. The laughter's made him dizzy, but he finds for some reason his headache is gone. He feels almost light. "But we are in the Rift _already_, fool. The exit lies some leagues that way. This trial is only for those who wish to return to the war. If your desire is to rot in Hell" – Gabranth smiles a small smile – "by all means, have your pleasure. Take what you will and be gone."

"You mean to say – " Kain begins.

"Yes, Kain Highwind." Gabranth interrupts, his throat still raw from the laughter. "Yet another pointless trial. Though I'd expect you'd be used to those, by now."

If Gabranth is expecting some kind of reaction, he is disappointed. The dragoon merely makes a small sound of disgust and walks off. By the tin tinkling of debris, he knows Kain is sifting around for salvageable supplies. By the start and stop of the man's breath, he can tell that the broken ribs, the death infected wound in his shoulder will shortly exact their price. But still, he pays no attention. All he does is crane his neck, cast his eyes upward, away.

The ceiling of the cavern is splattered with shadows. And while Gabranth has no desire to keep staring at their aimless drift, he finds he cannot look away.

Some moments pass, and Kain finishes collecting what he can. By way of farewell, he mutters only one thing.

"You've my pity," he says.

Gabranth snorts, and wiping the remnants of the tears from his eyes, he relaxes his neck. He supposes he could turn his head to watch the man depart but then decides there would be no point. Their business together is concluded. Whatever path Highwind chooses to walk makes no difference to him.

A few quiet beats pass before Gabranth finally replies. "Keep it. You'll need it for yourself."

For a time, Gabranth listens as Kain's footsteps echo through the chamber. When at last they fade, he sets his brow over the heated steel of his greaves and thinks of nothing. Automatically, his hand searches the broken earth for his blade, but he finds only loose stone, fragile ash, rusted nails. _Nothing._

In his ears, the sound of ash drifting over bone prevails.


	10. CVII: Among Certain Lies, Certain Truths

The Door of Souls, Chapter VII – Among Certain Lies, Certain Truths

**Apologies:** There is almost no excuse for a two-month delay in serialized fiction, RL notwithstanding. I would not blame anyone if they've dropped this already, but I am sorry, and will be back on schedule shortly.  
><strong>Beta Credit: <strong>Distant Glory, ever marvelous and vigilant.  
><strong>AN:** Some of the meta et al is inspired by the agile mind of Sunnepho, who is right brilliant.  
><strong>Rating Change:<strong> Three days from today, this is moving over to M. Hope you come with me.

* * *

><p>"<em>The inevitable triumph of illusion over reality is the single most obvious truth about the history of the human race."<em>

― Salman Rushdie, _Shalimar the Clown_

* * *

><p>The Captain's Quarters of the <em>Falcon<em> form a neat square, each presently aligned to a cardinal direction. Northeast. Southwest. Northwest. Southeast. Ordinarily, three of them are crowded with the typical arcana of magecraft – potions, artifacts, delicate little enchanters made of brass – but they're scattered now: strewn wide across a blood- and shadow-splattered floor.

Pushed from their shelves by the shuddering impact of the battle outside, many of them are broken or bent. Some are shattered completely, and they jump; make tinny, brittle noises as the ship is broadsided to port – _a fleshy smack, a mad squeal_ – to starboard – _a fire spell, the scent of burning cedar_ – fore – _gunfire_ – aft – _still gunfire, more gunfire_ …

It's only the southeast corner that remains relatively free of clutter. Just a few idle sheaves of parchment, a soiled sheet, a discarded book of prayers. And it is in this corner that Minwu kneels, alone, beneath a quorum of hunchbacked candles.

They cast oily amber light on the top of his head. They set garlands of smoke on his brow. They watch as he wraps Ribbons round his mutilated arms.

His knees rest in a shallow pool of blood, irregularly shaped. It is fed by crimson tributaries slashed in his skin. The liquid is hot and thick and almost ticklish, but Minwu ignores it. He has other things on his mind. Things that scratch at the window, somewhere off to the right.

Sweat varnishes the ridge of Minwu's brow, and from beneath it he stares at them. Their eyes are lidless and larval; their faces, wrecked with crystal tumors that coagulate on mouths and noses and neck. Distended, pulsing veins twine on the surface of their skin, but some of them have nearly normal fingers, nearly normal hands.

It's jarring, the pink flesh peeking out of layers of crystal and necrotic tissue, but not so surprising. They were human, once, after all.

He knows because he helped Cid study them. He knows, because the manikin Cie'th that attack them are things he helped create.

As if to punctuate the thought, one of them careens headfirst into the dull glass of the porthole. It makes a quick but sound that reminds Minwu of some obese noble slapping his own fat in glee. With a bleeding tongue, it licks its own reflection. It offers him a brainless, decaying glare, but Minwu cannot help but think it seeks answers nonetheless.

_Why?_ He imagines it asking him, with the deranged, repetitive logic of moths. _Why-why-why?_

Minwu observes it for barely a second before looking away. There isn't anything to say in reply.

Memories assault him in no particular order. _A tiny crystal hand: broken and outstretched. Parchment paper, warm and translucent as honey, with words he never should have uttered nearly faded away. Cid's tapping._ The strange, rapping click that echoed Minwu's mind over and over and over again as he worked, a wood sole against a wood floor.

He rolls his ear to a right shoulder. How he hated that sound.

Pulling the Ribbons taut over his arms, Minwu sees her, somewhere in the lazy coils of smoke. Aerith, as she was then, so forgiving and gentle and kind. Naked amongst the white sheets she pressed his brow to her shoulder and her hand to his back and held him until some of the rage slipped away.

That night she smelled of flowers. That night she wore pink ribbons in her hair.

"You didn't know," she'd said. "You meant well. These things won't get loose. The Rift is sealed. I'm the only one that can go back and forth…"

He knew she didn't love him at the time; that she was still thinking of Zack and of Cloud and the other heroes and soldiers she wanted more and better than a poor, broken white mage from Fynn, but he needed those words. He grabbed them and kept them, as is the nature of those who beg.

"It's okay…" She was exquisite in the bruised, secret dark of their chambers. All softness and sadness and forgiveness that she offered, Minwu more than half-suspects, because she thought it was expected of her. "It wasn't your fault."

Minwu struggles for a grip on the blood-slick Ribbon. When he fails, he puts the fabric between his teeth and yanks so hard his skin puckers, crushes the shy stigmata on his wrists. Breathing through his nose, he closes his eyes against an incandescent ripple of pain. _Yes, my love_ – he thinks the endearment he still cannot bring himself to say to her – _yes, it was_.

"The crystals in Linzei's study are basically dead." Genteel and callous, Cid's voice replays in Minwu's mind, distracting. "Surely you don't see harm in simple study?"

The correct answer was "_Yes_." But at the time, he still imagined he could find a way out of this with his principles intact. That he could convince whatever remained human in Cid of the Lufaine to call an end to the obsession.

_First, do no harm_. He believed that was possible, if given enough time. And collecting specimens of l'Cie from Lindzei's study had seemed like an innocent enough way to buy it.

In times of corruption, idealism is self-deception. He is a collaborator now. So say the creatures that beat their broken wings against the flank of the ship. The argument is irrebuttable.

It was so obvious. What else could Cid have wanted with living crystal? With the broken bones of those poor, cursed l'Cie? And so it progressed: from l'Cie to crystal statues to crystal ore. From crystal ore to manikins and manikin-Cie'th and the other horrors that were wrought with it. His doing. His blindness. His fault.

"But he's a near ideal result, don't you think?" There was no tapping, then. When Minwu had spoken the spells to bind memory to crystal, it was silent. "Perhaps there is another chance for me, after all."

Minwu spits, and the white of the saliva swirls into the blood on the floor, seamless. The disgust is as sharp now as it ever was. _The Warrior of Light_. The vanity of it is intolerable. And even if Ellone is right, Minwu doubts that he will ever be worth the price that was paid for him.

"Wouldn't you take it, Minwu?" Cid explained in that grating, condescending tone. "A chance to play your life again? Perhaps get another ending, play a different role?"

_No._ The thought is quick and vicious. _I would not. Live your own life, madman_.

Staggering to his feet, Minwu grunts in rage and frustration. The Ribbons do what they can – the enchantment will keep him from bleeding to death – but he feels the heat of the fever, and the blood that clings to his shins seems cool by comparison. He braces himself against a wall, wills his knees to lock. He will not fall down. He has spent too much time on his knees.

"It was a _crime,_ Cid." His voice is tight, and it is tight with hate. "And we shall both pay for it, I promise you that."

The air in the Captain's Quarters is a fermented brew of sweat, smoke and antiseptic. And even though he knows there's nothing around him but the rioting squeals of fiends, he swears he can hear that same staccato tapping, and he stifles a scream.

"_It's alright."_ The voice of Ellone's shade comes from behind him, soft and gentle and strange. "_It's almost over now."_

"Is it?" Minwu replies. Resting his head against the wall, he doesn't turn. He supposes he should be surprised to see her here, now, but he thinks he's become accustomed to her. How she appears and disappears like a spirit. One that wanders, maybe lost, although maybe just seeking.

"_Yes_." A miniature spectral hand brushes the wounds on his back. Swollen with blood, they quiver and strain to stay closed, and he shivers, nauseous. "_We're almost there. You can do it_."

"Only tell me he will suffer at the end." The words break every tenant of the White Order, but he says them anyway. "Tell me that and I can do anything you wish."

Ellone's weightless fingers tense. "_You don't mean that_."

Minwu doesn't intend to laugh but he does. "Perhaps I didn't. Once." Closing his eyes, he welcomes how the blackness lets him imagine that the thud of monsters against the ship is nothing more than an ordinary storm. "I do now."

"_You don't need to lie to me_." Ellone sounds almost indulgent. "_I know you don't really want revenge_."

Opening his eyes, Minwu focuses on the demon-shaped shadows that flutter on the wall before him, a plague of butterflies. "I don't?"

"_Of course not_." Minwu feels Ellone brush stiff strands of hair off his neck, and even though the fingers are ghostly, they're cool and gentle and he is very, very grateful. "_Why else would you still be thinking about it_?" She pauses. "_Why else would you seem so sad_?"

Minwu manages a soft, indulgent smile. "There are a thousand reasons for sadness, girl, some worthy, most not. Of them, I imagine my own distaste for Cid of the Lufaine is of rather limited importance."

"_Maybe_." Ellone's ghostly palm flattens over an open sore on his neck. "_For now_."

Minwu shakes his head. He tires of riddles today. "What brings you here, Ellone?" he asks, straightening. He needs to join the others on deck. He needs to do what he can. "I apologize for being abrupt," – he gestures idly to the window and the creatures beyond – "but as you can see there are some matters we ought to attend to."

The sudden return of heat to his flesh lets Minwu know Ellone's pulled back her fingers. "_I know,_" she says softly. "_I know Minwu, but it couldn't wait. Cosmos is getting ready now. She'll be gone soon._"

Minwu holds himself erect but doesn't move. This is the last news he needed to hear. "How long?"

"_A few weeks, I think_." Ellone answers simply and without elaboration. "_At the most_."

Minwu only breathes. They both know that it's not enough time. It's not worth belaboring the point. He clenches his fist, and his scabs stretch. "Thank you," he replies. "For the warning. We – "

"_It's not just that_," she interrupts. Both words and voice are pensive, sad. "_I came to say goodbye, too. I'm running out of strength, I think. The connections barely work anymore and I…if I only have one more trip left, I have to save it. I have to make sure Laguna sees one more thing…"_

There is something in the way that Ellone speaks that penetrates the slop of pain and anger and magic that's settled on Minwu's mind. Finally, excruciatingly, he turns from the corner and narrows his eyes at the shade of the strange girl whose even stranger gambit may be the only way out of this, for any of them.

What he sees troubles him deeply.

"Ellone," he sucks in the name. "What have you done to yourself?"

Ellone's shade only giggles, fidgets with the wet scarf that sags weary about her shoulders. Bleached by what Minwu imagines is the moonlight wherever she is, phantom rain plasters hair to her face. Some crusted fluid rims her ears and her eyes sink deep into a pale and distant face.

"_To be honest, I really don't think I know_." She smiles, and her mouth tips off-center. "_It's blurry, a little. I've never used my power this way before, and I'm not sure I'm supposed to do it for so long._"

Knowing his palms will rest only on empty air, Minwu strangles the reflex to reach out to her, to press Curaga into the diaphanous skin. "Never apologize to me. You've done more here than you will ever know."

The look Ellone's shade sends him is odd. The amber light stains everything a drab, uniform sepia, but her eyes seem to hover in it, disembodied and hyperbolically bright. "_I don't know about that, Minwu_." She pushes rain from her face, looks off someplace, somewhere. "_I mean, isn't it the most ordinary thing to do something for your family? That's all this is, really_."

It's the right answer, of course, but Minwu still cannot stomach it. It's wrong on a level that he thinks he can never concede. No daughter should be required to sacrifice as Ellone will be required to. But then, what is war if but a snake that eats itself? _First, it consumes its youth_…

"It's brave, nevertheless," Minwu says, dismissing the useless swirl of thoughts. "Do not forget that."

Ellone drags her eyes from the distance and shrugs. "_I guess. Can I ask you to do me a favor, though? Well, two, actually, if you don't mind."_

"Anything." Though it opens certain of his wounds again, Minwu bows.

"_Cosmos asked if you could deliver a message for her_."

Minwu tenses immediately but doesn't let the contempt into his voice. The girl has earned better than bitterness from him. "Yes?"

A smile plays over Ellone's lips, and it's as quick and light as any magic. "_She says to tell him that she remembers. And that she's not angry anymore_."

This time, Minwu lacks the discipline to keep the derision from his face. When next he speaks to Cid of the Lufaine, he intends barely to spit at him. To say only what is required to get the Warriors to Etro's Door. But still, he's hardly in a position to deny this child. If she is willing to show kindness to the kidnapper of her kin, he will not withhold it. "Very well. And the second?"

"_If you could_," she says, slow and reluctant. "_Would you mind telling Laguna the same thing? And that I love him. That I always loved him, even when he didn't come back_."

Minwu can't help but be taken aback. He blinks through the surprise. "But he's your father, doesn't he – "

"_No_." Ellone shakes her head and smiles. It's an immaculate line of sadness, but the edges are fading: vanishing like the rest of her back into thin air. "_He doesn't_." She pauses, and the last words she speaks linger well after she's slipped away. "_And he's not my father_."

There isn't time to answer her. By the time Minwu has thought of something to say, something as comforting and kind as she deserves, she's gone. There is only empty space in front of him. Empty space, and the cluttered remains of his life, scattered in pieces on the ground.

"Thank you, Ellone," he says anyway, to no-one, nothing. "Good luck."

Ellone's request lingers in Minwu's mind, wafts in and out of the carbon-thick air. Delivering that message jeopardizes everything he and Aerith have worked so hard to conceal. All the carefully laid plans, the narrowly drawn borders, the choices that were taken or twisted…

Minwu's mind hesitates over a conclusion. He doesn't know. Perhaps he's not doing anything for the greater good. Perhaps saving their lives under false pretenses is really another form of vanity. A facile redemption with no more weight than Cid's.

Shaking his mind free of thoughts, Minwu walks back to the bed, collects the cape and cowl of the first mage of Fynn. He settles them back on, still undecided.

It is the sudden, thunderous whoosh of superheated air from another fire spell that pulls Minwu's mind back to the task at hand. Cedar splinters and pops, and the smell of spiced ash assaults his nostrils. The edges of his favorite tomes begin to curl, dry and forgettable, in the insurmountable heat of the now.

Disgusted with his own preoccupation, Minwu coughs. He pivots – as swiftly as he can, but still not so swift – and goes to join the battle outside.

In his wake, the candles flicker lowly. Crippled and abandoned, they plot amongst themselves.

* * *

><p>Once upon a different life, Claire Farron, in a fit of teenage melodrama, named herself after the claws of a storm.<p>

_Lightning_. Invincible. Immortal. _A force of fucking nature_.

She was fourteen. And at the time, staring into her mum's flat, dead eyes, she thought she knew everything there was to know about random destruction. She thought she could recite every word ever written about rage.

Looking back on it, all Lightning can think is that hospital lights can make you see things, sometimes. Grief looks like anger. Anger, like control. _And bullshit, well_. Bullshit, like a flash of genius.

Raising her arm to her mouth to keep slag and smoke from clogging her throat, Lightning breathes out a thin laugh. She didn't know anything. About storms or wrath or anything else. She was a kid playing dress-up. And now, as she stands in the still eye of a cyclone of dying skin and corrupted crystal and fire that's cracking the cedar of the deck, Lightning regrets.

She spits hot, wet ash from where it's gathered on her tongue and raises her sword. _Claire_. She should never have left her behind.

_It was a nice name_. Wheeling on a heel, she eyes the distorted shadows that play over the deck. _Like Serah. Simple. Real_.

The rising tide of smoke burns in Lightning's eyes and she squints, unsure of what to try and kill first. _It's too bad_, she thinks, putting her guard up against the eyeless, lunatic things that whirl around her. Because if she's going to die here – eaten alive by one of the creatures she'll probably turn into – she wouldn't mind dying with the name her mother gave her.

A corroded talon swipes within inches of Lightning's face. Blinking, she narrows her focus and pulls her head out of her ass. Mercurial, her lips slide from sneer to vicious smile then back to a line. _Then again_ – she grits her teeth – _screw dying_.

_It's just a name_. If she has to make peace with it, she'll do it later.

She tightens her grip on Enkindler, shuts out the madding screams and the greasy smoke and the oppressive, overheated stink. She is alone on this patch of deck. Flakes of dead skin, ash and dry crystal drift like snow. It does not matter. The only thing that matters is this hand. This weapon. This second. And the last thing she thinks as the frenzied demons close ranks around her head is _no fucking way_ will she let it end like this.

Not here, after all this. Not after everything they've all lost.

Adrenaline guides Lightning's first strike. Turning swiftly, she swings the blade in a brutal overhead, takes instinctive aim at the hyper-extended wing joint of the nearest thing trying to kill her. The amputation is surgical, and both the creature and its twitching wing crash to the deck with resounding force.

As it dies, the limb makes wet, high-tempo thumps against the boards. And while Lightning has a hard time looking at it, she has it even worse with the pustules that pass for the damn thing's eyes. It looks up at her, rotted mouth opening and closing, and the part of her that remembers her old name can't help but feel something that seems like pity.

Lightning doesn't let the thought past the ridge of her mind. And whatever it is she's feeling doesn't stop her from raising her sword and ramming it though the still-howling throat.

Rank-smelling blood surges from a severed jugular in inky ropes. It splatters her face, catches in her hair, seeps under the hardened leather of her half-fingered glove. Indifferent, she exhales sharply, does a quick head-count of _Vaan, Tifa; Laguna, Yuna, Aerith_, before unsticking the point from the thing's soft spine and giving herself back to the present.

Enkindler bisects the smoke and flesh: in perpetual motion. Black steel flashes, almost indistinguishable from the things it tears apart.

"Die, die, _die_," she repeats. It's a nursery rhyme that tastes like raw gunpowder, and it adds rhythm to _strike, duck, flip, block_; punctuates the impact of steel against bone. She's killed a lot of them, but the number gets lost in the in the screaming, the smell.

She loses track of the pain. Skin's coming off her upper arms in ribbons; her jaw throbs and swells with the blunt force crack of wing and talon and gangrenous fist. If she were all-human, it'd be enough to knock her head clear off. She dodges, spits blood, tastes iron and irony.

_Good thing I'm not all-human_. She rolls her neck at a strange angle, hears the bones pop and crack.

"Lightning!" Somebody's calling her name. A usually gentle tenor that's gone hard and sharp. She can't tell where it's coming from, but she can tell it's a command. _Laguna_. "Cover me."

Through ripples of heat-distorted air, Lightning pivots until she finds him. His face is a mess of sweat and strings of grey flesh, but even through the bubbling air, she can see that he's smiling. _Smiling_. Lightning blinks ash from her eyes and can't decide if he's got a hell of a spirit or if he's clinically insane.

He winks at her, and as he unloads his MP-7 into the swarm, she figures both, probably.

"_Light_." Hopping back, he shouts at her before switching his machine-gun for a slick-looking precision rifle. "Don't mean to rush you or anything, but yeah. About that cover..."

Flipping Enkindler to a gun, Lightning barrel rolls across the burning deck. She's had a lot of thoughts about Laguna Loire in the year or so she's been stuck in Dissidia. Idiot. Stupid idiot. _Stupid, friendly idiot. Friend_. And as she comes out of the roll, watches him sharp-shoot demon-pin-pricks in the distant sky, she's not afraid to add one more.

_Good shot._ A rotting head explodes in streamers of brain and spinal cord. _Really good fucking shot._

"Not bad, Loire," she acknowledges, backing into him.

Turning his face a hair, Laguna smiles, fires another shot. "Aw, Light," he says. "You're gonna make me blush."

"Do me a favor." Lightning pulls Enkindler's sight to her eye and lets a volley go square into the chest of some winged, half-Golbez looking thing off in the distance. "_Don't__._"

Laughing, Laguna shoulders the rifle before pulling a grenade from his belt and yanking the pin with his teeth. He tosses it over, jaunty. "No need to get jealous, darlin'. We all know I'm prettier than you, anyway." He grins. "Mind taking care of that for me?"

Lightning reserves getting flustered for certain special occasions. She prides herself on not letting much crack her guard. That said, having a live grenade thrown at her in the middle of a firefight while the whole damn ship is burning around her seems to do the trick.

"Shit. Laguna, you ass." She juggles the munition between right and left hand before she collects her scattered thoughts enough to chuck the thing in some random direction. It explodes in a fireworks display of seething Cie'th bits before she snaps at him. "You did that on purpose."

"Me? Of course I did." Laguna ducks an oversized, swiping arm. "Gotta keep you on your toes somehow."

"Right," Lightning croaks out the word. It's getting so hot she struggles for all the breath she can take. "Now, there some reason you called me over here?"

"Oh, nothing," Laguna ducks. "Just, you know, the charming company, the witty repartee," – he pauses, and there's the quick shuffle-stepping sound of boots on deck followed by a rush of air as he tosses another grenade over the rail – "that nice gun of yours. You know, the one I need you to use for _covering me_?"

"Got that part," she spits back. "To do _what_?"

"Keep us _alive_, Light." There's no humor in Laguna's voice now. Off in the distance the grenade detonates and the shrapnel blows back to the deck. "You just gotta trust me."

Lightning tenses, blinks, decides that she does. "Then hurry up, idiot," she yells. "_Go_."

Holding Enkindler in two hands to brace the kick-back, Lightning pulls the trigger without bothering to aim. Bullets spray in all directions, and each one sends impact racing through her arms. She's got no _idea_where Laguna's going, what he's planning, or – after about six seconds – if he's even still alive. She hopes he is_. __Please_.

By the time she stops to reload her gun, she realizes she's alone.

_Damn it_, Lightning thinks. There's no order to this fight, no reason, no logic. It's surreal: near burlesque splashes of magic surge over a boiling cloud of grey. Yuna's staff is wedding-ring gold, flashing in time with Valefor's parabolic dives. Tifa's a blur of arms and legs, standing guard in front of Vaan. Green-light-bright with power, Aerith sends Lifestream to bore holes in a sky made of monsters, but there are more..._so many__more_…

Momentarily dizzy with horror and exhaustion, Lightning loses her footing as the Falcon lists uncontrollably right. Her left shoulder cracks into the rail, pops out of its socket, and dismembered bits of everything stick to her skin. Membranous sacs of lung and intestine and bloody crystal. Wing-flesh. Gooey and cold, they stink like human waste.

Pain and revulsion hit her in the gut. She does her best not to vomit, but the sweet wine she drank churns in her stomach, sour and cold. She swallows, and everything tastes like shit she ate three days ago.

Her stomach convulses, and it's all she can do to hold Enkindler up in a block against the screeching faces descending towards her. The half-dead, half-crystal creature that lands in front of her moves with serpentine elegance, and Lightning's pretty sure it'll take its sweet time killing her, once it gets here.

Grimacing, she glares up at it. "Screw you," she spits.

It steps towards her, parts its moth-eaten lips. All Lightning can see are ranks of brown teeth. All she can hear is its distorted scream of rage. That is, until it's interrupted by the crunching sound of pressurized rubber soles cracking ribs; the soft, person-sounding whimper it makes as two gloved hands grasp its jaw from behind and – with a single, elegant motion – break its neck.

The thing falls down, reveals Tifa's bright face. "Light." It's a warm, kind voice Lightning hears from above her, and she follows it out of the nausea. "You okay?"

"_**Teefs**_," comes Vaan's lock-jawed reply from the wheel. "Does she _look_ okay? This is _not_okay."

For once, Lightning agrees with him. In fact, "not okay", would probably qualify for the understatement of the fucking year. And yet, for some reason, they're still alive. Because even though there are enough of these things to swarm the deck about a billion times over, they're just circling. Attacking savagely but aimlessly. Without purpose.

_They're __**toying**__ with us_. The realization's stark and nonsensical.

Grabbing Tifa's hand and pulling herself to her feet, Lightning decides she doesn't care. Logic's the last thing she's concerned with right now. She'll take anything that keeps them breathing.

"Vaan," she yells, flipping Enkindler back to a sword just in time to block the claw that swipes at her exposed neck. "Mouth shut. Eyes front. Keep _focused_. "

"Focused on what?" Lightning can hear the fear hit high registers in Vaan's voice, but the deck stays even beneath their feet. Against all odds, he holds them steady and sure. "Aerith." There's real venom in the way he says her name. "_Aerith_. Didn't you say you were going to try something?"

"We _are_ trying." Aerith's response is half-consumed by the sound of supply barrels rolling into the topmast, by Valefor's distant screech of pain. "You have to get us closer. You have to keep going."

"Keep going _where_?"

Untamed magic coils around Aerith's hand as she raises it slowly to one of the Gates. "Straight ahead."

"You're out of your mind." Vaan pushes filthy, sandy hair from his eyes and then coughs. "_Fran._ Don't listen – "

"Boy," the compass cuts him off with authority. "This course is set already."

"This is insane." Vaan strangles the wheel, tries to bank the ship sharply right. "You _trust_ her?"

"Still you fail to see clearly." The wheel yanks itself from his grasp. "Sky pirates do not trust. They _fly_."

Lightning hears the exchange but can't do anything about it. Everything's happening at once. She's literally using all the energy she has to keep fighting. To keep thrashing Enkindler at arbitrary angles – _block (or pivot?), slice (what, no, __**parry**__**,**__ Farron, __**parry**__), repeat_ – between her and Tifa and theses whatever-the-hell they are that demons that just won't stop **screaming**.

The smoke and heat are eating into Lightning's perception. Things are losing their edges and their shape, and she's so tired that the tears in her eyes turn the ash to black sludge. The world reduces itself to incoherent violence. It's too hot. Her shoulder screams. Cinders wiggle into her throat and burn.

She can't breathe. The fucking world is burning down, and she can't _breathe_.

It's why she doesn't recognize him, at first. It's why, squinting through the cacophony, when she makes out the glaring, pristine white of a pair of wings, a part of her thinks that she's hallucinating, falling backwards into a delirium that she can't climb out of.

The sound of Tifa's voice sliding over a name cuts through the confusion. It reaches into a quiet corner of her mind and unlocks the memory of a man-shaped demon Lightning only wants to put back in the grave it crawled out of.

"_Raines_?" Tifa drops her voice and her guard.

The swarms of manikin Cie'th part as he banks in towards the ship. Like the prophet of some ancient messiah, he's returned. Vengeful and beautiful, he's crawled out of the gleaming crystal wreckage of their home to remind her – one more time – of all the mistakes she's made.

The recognition nails her in place. It turns her legs to lead. It scares the shit out of her.

"Yes, Tifa." He hovers several feet above them now, beating his wings very softly, very slowly, _with unlimited grace_. "We must end this. You need to give me your crystal."

Putting her guard up again, Tifa shakes the remains of her falling-out bun from her hair. "Sorry, Raines," she answers, and Lightning can hear a tremble rattle the brightness. "No can do. Girl can't just go giving away her jewelry."

Some dark, corrupt thing passes over Raines' eyes before he pins her with them. "You were kind to me." He pulls his sword from his scabbard, and the noise grates. "Do not force me to be cruel."

"Please." The tremble in Tifa's voice is still there, but she's dropped the perky act. Raines's eyes seem to have cut straight through it. "Nobody's _forcing_ you to do anything. You don't have to do this. You can – "

"I cannot." Raines bears down on them with stunning speed. Gliding to hover inches from the deck, he holds his sword right beneath Tifa's chin. "I will not. For me, there was never a decision to be made." Something hard gleams in his eyes. "You are used to being a hero, so perhaps you do not understand."

Tifa blinks, mesmerized. The blade slides up her chin in a near caress, so soft and precise it leaves no trace on her skin. Gleaming, he alights it over her lips before he withdraws it, gently.

Vaan's yelling something in the distance, but Tifa either acts like she can't hear him or really doesn't.

"Not all choices lead to happy endings," he continues. "Do not let naivety bring ruin to things you do not understand."

"Shut up." By now, Lightning's managed to shake whatever it was that was holding her in place, and she's got Enkindler in gun form trained at his head. She pulls back the safety, snarls: "Shut up and let her go, or I swear I will blow your brains out right here."

Flicking his eyes over her, Raines looks almost bored. "Lightning, for example," he says before returning his attention to Tifa. "So defiant. Did you know she's already a slave? That failing to give me your crystal will ensure she remains one?"

"_No_," Tifa doesn't tremble. She balls her fist and looks him square in the eye. "It's not true. It can't be. Come with us. We can help you."

Sighing, Raines only shakes his head. "Cruelty it is."

A number of things happen in the narrow space of a second. The crisp snap of fingers. A bolt of magic: green or white. Tifa, flying into the mast. Raines turning, slow and deliberate, sword poised in hand. He speaks: "I will show you what you sentence her to," he mutters. "Perhaps you require a demonstration after all."

Lightning doesn't hesitate. She's firing almost before Tifa's hit the floor. Heart pounding in her ears, she squeezes the trigger so hard the metal grooves her skin. And as every last bullet in her cartridge unloads into Raines' head, she watches as bits of that beautiful face come off in bloody, ragged chunks.

He just stands there. He just waits.

Somewhere on deck, Tifa's screaming and Lightning doesn't know at what. "_Stop, stop. Stop_," she thinks she hears. "_Oh please. Stop_."

"Raines." Lightning's vocal chords strain and her traitor hands don't stay steady. They quiver. "_Why can't you __**die**_?"

Raines pulls back his blade, cocks his ruined head as if considering a response. Lightning half expects an answer to slither out of the bleeding hole of his mouth, but all he does is shrug before cracking her across the skull with the hilt of his sword.

Enkindler falls from her hands and clatters on deck, insignificant as carbon amongst the fire.

"You will know soon enough." The eyes he looks down on her are pulps of viscous sclera and burst capillaries. "I am sorry for that."

Lightning feels the point of the sword come under her left breast. Her head's spinning. Her hair's wet with gore. Above her, fiends riot and wheel. "Yeah. Right," is all she manages to say.

Too many nonsense things drift through Lightning's mind as Raines pushes the blade home. A throne, made of crystal, before which she bends her knee. Her sister, smiling, looking off at an invisible world. She feels the feverish brush of her mother's hand against her face. And Kain – of all people, stupid, martyred _Kain_ – whisper something about the name the woman gave her, the last thing of her she has left.

"How beautiful," he'd said. "Unexpected."

Lightning closes her eyes and breathes in deep. She wants to exhale the feeling balled up in her chest, but then cold steel pushes through her lungs there's not enough air for even a scream.

* * *

><p>Minus a few minor mix-ups with syllables, Laguna Loire likes to think of himself as a pretty well-spoken guy. He doesn't <em>really<em> remember how long he's been at this whole President of Esthar thing, but he does remember it involves talking to blowhards on a more or less full time basis, and he feels like he's picked up some of the tools of the trade.

"_Of course. Couldn't be __more__ interested in that report, counselor"; "Lovely collar, Dr. Odine. You make a very attractive satellite dish"; "Fabulous Gyshal-green cake, thanks,"_ et cetera, yadda, blah, et cetera, whatever.

So, yeah. In a way, he likes to think of himself as having assembled a pretty decent vocabulary, an okay sense of timing. So, as he's racing down the steps to the bowels of the _Falcon_, holding his hand to his face and trying not to breathe in so much ash that he actually just dies like a moron from smoke inhalation, he feels like he's more or less got the situation down pat:

"Fuck," he mutters, jumping over a particularly nasty looking puddle of fire. "Fucking, fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

Scrambling under burning beams, the string of merry profanities continues uninterrupted. Somewhere in the back of Laguna's mind, he makes a mental note to rub it in later that he was the only person who seemed to put together probably the second most important tactical fact – _after the whole screaming, flying manikin-demon death horde__thing_ – of this whole mess.

The _Falcon_ is on fire. The _Falcon_ has canons that use a prodigious amount of gunpowder. The combination of fire and gunpowder tends to result in a death that features a large number of blown-up bits that really aren't fit for a state funeral.

He coughs, pulls his jacket close around his mouth. _I should at least __try__ to die pretty. That said_ – he looks up through burning eyes, tries to ignore the welts his tags sear into his chest – _burning to death isn't so hot either._

Laguna'd like to laugh at his own quip – _burning, hot, get it?_ – but finds that he's too busy trying to cough out his left lung to try. He drops to his knees beneath the smoke, feels the heat crawl around in the space between his bubbling skin and the hard, freshly cleaned leather of his jacket. The sting of first and second-degree burns is starting to hop-skip-jump over his nerves, and any thought of bragging rights evaporates as he pulls the damn thing off and struggles back to his feet.

Sweat pools on the curve of his low back and soaks through his tank top. It doesn't stand a chance of cooling him down.

It's hard to say exactly when Laguna notices the other figure lurching through the stairwell in the other direction. In fact, when the silhouette first shows up in his field of vision, he's almost certain that it's some hunk of burning cloth – _a bit of sail or whatever random hunks of medieval junk they keep on this boat_ – but then it moves and lets out a distinctly not-just-a-piece-of-sail type groan.

Panic rips through his stomach, stealing almost all that nice breath he was able to save.

"Minwu?" Laguna hacks the name. "That you?"

Through cumulous clouds of smoke, Laguna sees the blurry outline of a hand being raised in acknowledgement; the out-of-place glint of sapphires in a shield. "Aye, friend," a wracked voice comes back in answer. "What are you doing below decks?" Grasping haphazardly at a wall, he continues: "Get back…We're running out of _time_…"

Laguna reaches Minwu just in time to pull him out of the half-collapsed crouch he was in. "Not sure what you mean about time, your magey-ness." He pauses, turns his back to the hatch to shield them both from a rain of cinders. "But I promise you: this fire reaches the sixty pounds of powder on your gun-deck and we won't have any of it."

"Ah." Minwu looks up at him, inclines his head. "Fair point. Although you'd planned to stop it how, exactly?"

Spitting slag from his mouth, Laguna makes a small, frustrated noise and admits that he was planning on figuring it out when he got there. He smirks, does his level best to grasp a rail as the _Falcon_ gets broadsided for _oh, about the fifty-billionth time_. "Improvisation?"

Minwu shakes his head. Straightening, he gestures sharply with his right hand and sends just about the _nicest _Shell and Protect spells Laguna's ever felt over his blistering skin. "I need to come with you," he says.

Grinning wolfishly, Laguna breathes in the magic filtered air, loves the hell out of the fact it doesn't singe his lungs anymore. "Yeah," he can't help but agree. "Yeah, I'd say you probably do."

It's only one or two more flights of stairs to the gun-deck, but the despite the happy cocoon of magic they're wrapped in, it's slow going. Planks weakened by the heat keep giving out beneath their feet, and whole rafters collapse in smoldering wreckage behind them. Ash gums up Laguna's eyes, and while Shell keeps it from cauterizing his tear-ducts, he still can't see for shit. Everything's a mess of red, brown, redder orangey-red, grey, and – somewhere in the muck – a whirl of white that he follows like some crazed rabbit down a rabbit hole.

Laguna grits his teeth. _Psychotic, fiery rabbit hole of death_, he corrects, wanting to be precise. He figures he might have to revise that whole _die pretty_ bit.

Grunting he shakes his head, wishes – despite the whole demon-face-waving thing – that he could see Ellone one more time. Sore regret spreads over his stomach, but he tucks it away with all the other things he either can't remember, can't change, or both. Like _her_. Like the nice, ordinary life that he wanted to get around to living, one of these days.

By the time they reach the gun-deck, the whole floor's half-eaten by fire. Fanged, it hangs from rafters, eats up the floorboards, chews up coils of heavy rope like some thousand-mouthed beast out of a kiddie book. The cannons – _nice, squat little carronades_, he can't help but notice – are too black to reflect the flame, but Laguna can tell by the way the grease on the lanyards bubbles and spits that they're hot enough to burn the skin clear off any hands not coated in Shell.

The one thing the fire hasn't reached – _thank Hyne or blind luck or whatever else is responsible_ – is the gunpowder stacks.

Minwu notices it the second he does, and doesn't waste any time. Before Laguna can call out to him, suggest that he use some of that extra-special First Mage power Aerith was nattering on about last night, he's already drawing exact patterns in the air with his right hand, throwing Teleport in every direction. The gunpowder disappears, but so do whole cannons, barrels, the rest of the spare MP-7 ammo, anything that happens to be in his line of sight.

It's wild. And Laguna can't do very much other than bury his face in the crook of his elbow and watch as whole chunks of artillery disappear. He can't deny it's pretty damn impressive, but his trigger finger twitches at the waste…

Lowering his arm, Laguna's about to say something about not getting rid of _all_ their big guns when both he and Minwu are knocked clear to the planks by a crushing hit on the _Falcon's_ port side. The impact rings through the bones of the ship, but by some miracle – _or Vaan, actually, more likely_ – the thing doesn't completely pitch over.

Laguna rolls to his knees, tries to sort the stars he's seeing from the rest of the dizzy debris. He's not doing so great at it, but still. Something plucks at his instincts. _Not quite right, _his gut tells him. _Something was off about that hit. Some noise_ –

_Shit._ Laguna scrambles to his feet as he hears it again: a mythical high-C keen he's heard once or twice before. _Valefor. Yuna._

Rushing to one of the only portholes not walled off by fire, Laguna looks out, whistles a thin, breakable whistle and fights the urge to look away. Poor thing's caught in complete carnage. Under attack on all sides by swarms of manikin-Cie'th, she's wrecked. Unctuous blood drips from rainbow feathers. The elegant neck is shredded, wounds swollen with infected crystal. But the worst is the way her wings move. Awkward and slow, Laguna can see that they're going to give out. Soon.

And at the trajectory she's being pushed, she'll crash right into the ship.

"What's happening?" Minwu's still lying where he fell on impact. His shield's gone off-kilter on his arm, and a few of those pretty sapphires have come loose. "That call? Was that – "

"Valefor," Laguna answers through his teeth as he rushes back and yanks Minwu to his feet. "I know you've enjoyed poofing away all my guns, but I think we've got to play some offense now."

Minwu's blazing blue eyes narrow he struggles to steady himself. "Explain."

Gesturing with his chin towards one of the remaining carronades, Laguna forces a grin he really doesn't feel to his face. "I always wanted to see one of those things blow. And we don't get those things off Valefor, she's going to punch a massive hole in the side of this boat."

_And die. And break Yuna's heart in two_. He swallows. Doesn't say that last bit because then it'll be way more real than he wants it to be.

"Are you mad?" Minwu blinks, pulls himself out of Laguna's grasp. "We can't fire that here, now. It'll tear this ship apart."

The weak grin gets a shot of adrenaline. "Who said anything about firing her here?"

Understanding softens the sharpness of Minwu's glare. "She was right about you," he says. The words are carefully chose and slowly spoken. "You're braver than you're credited for."

"Hey the what now?" Laguna can't keep the surprise from his voice or the niggle of suspicion from his mind. "She? Who – "

"Forgive me," Minwu interrupts, and Laguna can't help but notice how he averts his eyes. "Show me what you have in mind."

In heat and haze and smoke and noise, they work without speaking, in a series of gestures that lets Laguna know that wherever this guy came from – _Firion's world_, he remembers being told – he knows his way around a fight. The plan's simple enough. _Elegant, really_. Four neat military steps. _Shell the shit out of hands__. __Shove remaining powder in breach__. __Roll canon overboard. Hit with Thunder spell. _

_Watch the sky explode._

Laguna smiles. Real this time. He guesses he added a step and made it five, but who's counting?

Despite the teeth-jolting impact coming from all directions, they get through steps one and two pretty quickly. Step three's a bit trickier, but they manage to undo the stays that hold the cannon to the deck and open the release hatch so Minwu can push it out with a wind spell. _Step_ _four, _however, requires something good and hard to hold onto while they blast the thing to hell. And given that everything is on fire, Laguna figures this is going to be the hard part.

_Ah well. Best laid plans..._

"Over there." It's Minwu who gestures towards where the mizzenmast still seems generally un-scorched. Racing over, Laguna loops the enchanted rope he keeps around his belt around it, harnesses them both in place.

Might as well get some use out of it, he thinks, measuring out some slack before pulling the slip-knot tight. All the cool shit he seemed to be able to do in Dissidia seems stifled here, but hey. Magic rope is magic rope. And even if he can't quite use it to lasso baddies anymore, the flame resistance is a nice perk.

"Where'd you get that?" Minwu asks, grasping the rope with one hand and gathering Aero into the other.

Laguna laughs, offers a quip. "The faeries gave it to me."

"The _faeries__?"_ Minwu sounds dubious. Under the cowl his lips pull to one side.

"Aren't you some kind of big-shot sage type?" Laguna asks, trying his hardest to stay bright. He notices for the first time that the guy's got nasty gash stains on his robes and about six Ribbons tied around his forearms. "Faeries," he continues, keeps on with a joke he doesn't feel much like telling anymore. "Tiny little naked winged chicks? Come to you in dreams?"

"Hm." The lopsided smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared. "Are you certain it's faeries that come to you in your dreams, Laguna?"

If what Minwu said before set off tripwires in his mind, these words sound alarms. But before Laguna can open his mouth to say anything, Aero's already slipped from the First Mage's hand and all hell's broken loose.

The carronade goes sideways, punches a huge hole in the cannon-port. There's a sudden, rushing vacuum, and backdraft funnels past them in a blur of falme and ash and splinters of burning wood. The only thing keeping them in place is Laguna's rope. The only thing keeping them alive is the second Shell that Minwu wraps around their skin and clenches tight.

The magic coats him. It fills up pores and soaks into tissue and flows down his throat just in time to prevent him from inhaling raw flame. There are leaks though, and at the edges of the spell where Laguna can feel Minwu's power fray, fire crawls in and chars hair and fabric and flesh.

Laguna squeezes his eyes shut. Doesn't think. Holds the fuck on.

It's over in a half second. Less than. And when Laguna relaxes his eyelids and lets vision back in, Minwu's already loosed himself from the harness and stands – how, Laguna has no idea – in the center of the deck.

Alone and unfettered, he gathers lightning from the sky. Great, gossamer clusters of it that dance in his hands and over his shield. Wild-bright, it is so flawlessly fucking magnificent, Laguna can't see the bloodstains anymore, or the fire. All he can see is power, and it hurts his eyes.

"Stay back," Minwu commands. And not one to scoff at orders from a guy who's basically bleeding lightning and is literally being held together by Ribbons, Laguna listens, nods, watches.

"Hyne." He squints his eyes as the spell flies from Minwu's fingers towards the falling cannon. "Mother of mercy."

The carronade explodes. And it doesn't explode just a little, like one of the nice, civilized detonations from one of Laguna's favorite grenades. It shatters in a starburst of steel and electricity; tongues of grey smoke and blue smoke and white hot iron. He wants to say it's something awesome – an explosion that makes all the other explosions green with envy – but that wouldn't be quite right. Because despite the fact this is one for the win column, what he just saw chills him. It chills him right down to the bone.

Minwu's hit it with something like pure rage. At what, Laguna couldn't say. He doesn't know that he wants to.

Fire sears a hole in the sky, breaks apart the demons clawing at Valefor as if they were never there at all. Laguna'd like to be clearer on the description, but all he can think about as the cloud of manikin-Cie'th splatters outward is one of those cigarette burns that starts in the middle of a bar napkin and then just eats the whole thing up. _One second there.__Next second, gone_.

_Next second_ – Minwu's collapse interrupts whatever follow-up thought Laguna might have been trying to think. Expertly rappelling from the harness, he's there to pull the guy back before gravity yanks him overboard. He's heavier than he looks, and as Laguna drags the limp form back to safety, he can't but wonder where all those stereotypes about mages being nice, light, easy-to-carry people came from.

"Hey now," Laguna mutters, not exactly sure what to feel. "That was some pretty freaky shit there, my friend. Some issues you're not telling us about?"

Minwu doesn't lift his head to answer. A small, weak laugh escapes his lips. "…perhaps …," he wheezes. "But they can…wait for later, I suppose…just…one more spell now…get us…out of here…"

Pulling Minwu completely vertical, Laguna shakes his head. He's filthy again. Inanely, he wonders what the hell a guy's gotta do to stay clean in this place. "That doesn't seem like such a hot idea," he says. "I hope you know what you're doing."

As the Teleport spell shimmers around them, it's difficult for Laguna to tell if the rattle in Minwu's chest is another laugh or a wracking cough. But the words he hears are clear enough.

"So do I," he replies.

* * *

><p>Tifa's head cracks back against the mast. Hard. And while she certainly feels the crushing, dizzy-making pain of impact, it's the sound that abducts all her senses at once. Dull. Cracking. It resounds through her skull and spinal column, tingles the tips of her fingers, distracts her for a critical second, during which –<p>

_Oh. Oh no._

When her eyes peel open – wet with some thick liquid that could be sweat or blood or something else – she blinks and lolls her head sideways. Something horrible is playing out in front of her, but her mind won't process it. Her body short circuits: a hand goes to the burning deck and doesn't feel anything hot or solid or real; a scream vibrates in her vocal chords but nothing comes out. Her tongue feels thick and disobedient in her mouth, still strangely sweet with the taste of all that wine...

The action denatures into component parts. Coming forward, the blade is immaculate. Coming back, it's smeared.

There are screams somewhere on deck. Vaan, she thinks, but she can't be sure. She not really focusing on anything other than what's happening in front of her. She doesn't think she can.

_No._

Tifa watches it happen in slow motion, and thinks, nonsensically, that a person shouldn't be so soft. A sword shouldn't slide through so quickly, without any resistance at all.

But there was Aerith – the realization cuts through the distorted ringing in her ears – there was Aerith, and she remembers that it was exactly the same. Except then, she thought she'd never be able to look at herself ever again. Because before it happened, some small part of her had wanted…had thought if she were just gone he'd –

Tifa lets the guilt push her to her feet. That guilt that gnawed her up so badly she thought she deserved anything anyone ever dished out to her, that paralyzed her. She uses it. Racing back across the deck – woozy with pain, shock, the haze of too much alcohol drunk when she thought for one foolish minute they were safe – it wakes her up.

She's not losing this time.

All there is in the entire universe is now. Yuna and Aerith, side by side. Vaan, straining behind the wheel. Cid Raines – just hovering – a man hung out to dry between two angel's wings.

And monsters. Everywhere she looks, amidst currents of Lifestream and all those scattered false stars, monsters.

By the time Tifa reaches them, there is so much blood on deck that she almost slips on it. When she comes to her knees, it's hot filled with bits of ash and dirt unidentifiable flesh. Whatever they are, they stick to her knees, get lodged in the burns that are blooming on her skin.

"Light. Light. Oh God." Tifa can't tell whether she's crying or her eyes are watering from the smoke and it really doesn't matter. Gathering Lightning's body in her arms, she can feel the skin go clammy. It's everything she can do to keep the next words she speaks from bursting out of her throat as a scream. "Cid. What have you done?"

Raines is more concerned with wiping the blood from his blade than he with looking at Tifa. "It wasn't I who did this to her." The sword returns to its sheath, but glistening red lingers on alabaster fingertips. "You deliver her to one who will remove one curse and bestow another."

"What are you talking about?" Tifa's hands have found their way to the wound beneath Lightning's breast, and the pulse beneath her fingers is sticky and arterial. Her voice teeters at the top of its range, ready to snap. She doesn't even notice the slowly healing ruin of his face. "After what you just did? I thought" – her hand clenches over wet, wooly fabric, she gulps burning air – "I thought you couldn't kill us because we had to give you these damn – "

Cid interrupts her without shifting his attention from his sword. The beats of his wings against the air press gusts of wind into her face. "Look down."

"What?" Tifa feels tears roll down her face as she spits the question. They're cool and cutting. "I'm not listening to you anymore…I'm n_ot _listening."

Raising eyes that Tifa notice sit half-boiled in their sockets, Raines only repeats himself. "Look _down_, Tifa Lockheart."

There is something in his voice that rings in the back of Tifa's mind, counterpoints the melody that's been there, playing steadily, since she touched the door in the Ruins. Almost against her will, she listens, she blinks.

She sees.

The body beneath her hands is impossible. It breathes easily through lungs that should be punctured. It has a heartbeat that wasn't there five seconds ago. It's no longer dying, even though Tifa still presses down on the ratty lips of the wound as if she were. She has to. She doesn't know what else to do.

"I don't understand." The whisper trembles. "I thought Yuna and Aerith sealed her brand. I thought…"

"It should be obvious." Raines finally alights on the burning deck. His footsteps are weightless amongst deconstructed clouds of ash, and he looks down on her with something like pity. "She is like me. Etro intends to make her Undying. Like me, she shall have limitless power. And she shall be bound in limitless chains."

Somewhere at the edge of her vision, Tifa can see Aerith's mouth move, but for some reason there's no sound. She has a quick thought that the words must be getting strangled by the screeching and the impact and the wind-tunnel whoosh of magic in the air, but then she realizes she can't hear anything. Not really.

Just the blood rushing in her ears; Lightning's impossible breathing; _Raines_.

He kneels before her and Lightning's blood slides into the joints of his armor. His wings are folded at his back. "Is that what you want for her?"

"You're lying," she says. Instinctively she hugs Lightning closer, whispers the next words into her hair. "You're lying to me."

"I have no need to lie to you Tifa." A cold hand comes up beneath her chin. It forces her to look back at him and, fully healed, his face is so perfect now it's almost cruel. "I would not want to lie to you, even if I did." He pauses. "She will fight endlessly, and as she is told. She will enter a battle that will bring everything to an end."

It isn't until now that Tifa notices Lifestream curling around them, flowing at Aerith's command from where she stands near the prow of the ship. It snakes into Raines' armor, tries to push itself into eyes and mouth and ears, but he only shrugs. Raising the hand that is not at her face, he snaps his fingers and the most powerful force Tifa has ever known breaks over him like a river over a stone.

"Tifa, _no_." Cutting back across the deck, Tifa can finally hear Aerith's voice, and it's begging. "You _can't_. Please, you don't know what you're _doing_."

"You can stop it," he insists. "Give me your crystal. Do not take her to the Door of Souls." The cold hand slides from her jaw to her neck. In the punishing heat of a burning ship, it feels like rain. "You must trust me. I will tell you that of the people speaking to you now, only one has lied. It is not me."

"_Please_." Aerith again, louder. "You don't understand."

Tifa hears the words but she doesn't listen. She doesn't care. Aerith's right. She doesn't understand the Lifestream, and she's not a Cetra and there's nothing she can ever do to take back that tiny, jealous piece of her that wanted her gone. But one thing she does understand is that she will not lose another friend if she can help it. And if it means giving up this rock, or a chance to go home, or even her life, for once, then so be it.

Everything else can go to hell.

Laying Lightning back down in the blood on the deck, Tifa reaches into her pocket. Fumbling past Vaan's crystal ring, she finds it and breathes in; folds it in her hand and breathes out.

Lifestream crawls into Raines' magic like a twisting vine. It's going to break through whatever power Lindzei's leant him soon enough, but still, he watches her. He waits. She waits with him.

The howls of demons haunt her mind. They sing.

"Here," she says at last. "Just take it."

Something snaps in the connection between them the second the crystal passes from her hand to his. And as he wraps it in his fingers, Tifa honestly doesn't know if it's because Lifestream has pushed its fingers almost all the way past his guard, or because a massive, multicolored explosion's just gone off on the Falcon's port side, or just because he's got what he wanted. Either way, it's gone.

She's alone now, kneeling in an ashy smear of blood that's not hers. And everyone is screaming.

Without really thinking, Tifa pulls away from Cid's touch. His fingers recede. "Thank you," he says formally, rising. He's straining now, trying to keep the magic in place, but he raises his sword anyway. "I will do this quickly."

Breathing deep, Tifa doesn't even flinch. She knows she should be terrified, but for some reason, she just isn't. "I can't believe you really want to do this, Raines." She takes and holds his eyes. "I thought…I thought you wanted to be free."

If this impacts Raines in some way, it doesn't show in his face. He simply shakes his head, tries to lift his hand past the weight of the Lifestream that Aerith's pressing down on it. "I think," he grunts, speaking even as green tendrils find their way past his lips, "I was wrong."

The funny thing is that Tifa isn't even surprised to see that Raines can't finish what he started. Now that the connection's shattered, she can see exactly how much Lifestream Aerith's called around them. She's only seen so much of it once before, in a fractured memory, and it stood between them and the end of the world.

Once it breaks through, Cid doesn't have much of a chance. It wraps him up, consumes him, drowns him, the way it did her in a time that seems so far away it barely exists anymore. And as his face disappears somewhere within it, Tifa sees fear in his eyes for the first time. It's quick and it's bright and she'd feel sorry for him if she thought for one second it would be enough to kill him.

It won't. Shimmying on her knees back to Lightning, she gathers the limp body back into her arms. He'll keep coming back. It's so awful, she doesn't know what to do with it so instead she just holds her friend and does not regret what she's done.

There's a lot of screeching voices – human and monster both – but only Vaan's gets through. Aerith just turns away. "Teefs. Man," he says. "What's happening? What did you just do?"

Tifa looks up. With whatever force Raines was using to keep them in check gone, the mass of demons around them turn cannibal, begin sinking claw and weapon and untamable magic into anything within range. It's vile. The blood and stench of it will linger in her clothes for days and in her memory for the rest of her life, but that's not important now so she ignores it.

The answer she finally gives shudders through her. "The right thing, I thought," she whispers, partially to him but mostly to herself. Lightning's pliant in her arms, and she squeezes so tight the sick, tacky fluid seals their skin. "I'm sorry…I thought I did the right thing."

Vaan doesn't give a reply. Streaked with winged shadow, his face can't be read. All Tifa sees are his eyes, and they rest on Aerith's back with such visceral intensity that she has to look down.

She doesn't know how long they just stay like that, confined together, racing the dying sky.

* * *

><p>At the moment, Yuna's trying very hard to do what Aerith and Minwu told her. She's been trying for quite some time.<p>

"Concentrate," they'd said. It doesn't matter what else she sees here. She must hold steady. She must hold on.

"You can summon the Aeons if you wish. Shinryu does not prowl here." Minwu spoke to her the way her oldest teachers did. Steady and level and learned. "But if Lindzei opens the Gates of Song to her minions, they will close to everyone else. You _must_ stay focused. You will be the only one who can bring us home."

"Home" meant the Phantom Village, of course. Home meant yet another place that really isn't, but that's not really what's important. As it stands, Yuna will take harbor in any port. Any place where her friends might be safe a moment, and where she might light a candle for Bahamut and Sir Kain and everyone else they left behind.

She doesn't think his name, but it's there anyway, defined and made sweet by its absence.

And so, Yuna tries. The sky is falling and on the deck there's blood and fire, but still she keeps going. She closes her eyes, reaches for the stillness she requires and lets the horror play on, unobserved.

"But I can't Send the _living,_ Sir Minwu." Yuna remembers the scent of the Captain's Quarters: medicine, spice, old books. She remembers Lady Aerith hovering: ethereal, but with thin, birdish hands. "And even if I could, I…I wouldn't know where. It doesn't work that way, I don't think."

"Doesn't it?" Minwu sat cross-legged in the filthy sheets, but there was a flash of mischief in his eyes that made Yuna think he must have been someone quite different, long ago. "Or is that you just haven't thought about it the right way?"

The confusion she felt then still lingers. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

By way of answer, he'd smiled; poised a tiny Ice spell in his hand in shape of Firion's rose. "All matter in the universe conserves itself, child; all energy as well. It transitions through states" – softly, he dissolved it with Fire – "forms," – with Water, he danced the melt in his palm – "locations," – he poured it to the ground. "But it never disappears. Not between ice and fire. Not between and life and death."

He quieted and took a deep breath then, but after a while, he continued to speak. "Sending, returning to the Lifestream. There are different words for different worlds, but in the end, the concept is the same. Loosely said, all things are electric." He gave a small, wondering laugh that Yuna hears over the screams of fiends. "So what's life or death or any other kind of magic, really, but moving a little energy around?"

Realization came slowly. Even now, it's not all the way there. But still: "Then it doesn't matter. I can always touch it."

"You and Aerith both, in different ways," he replied. "But yes, Yuna. You can always touch it. To some degree, what you Send is in all things, everywhere."

With her eyes closed, it's easy enough to put faith in the words. Intuitive and wise, they're filled with all the graceful things Yuna's always wanted to believe about the universe. That no life is wasted. That everything is somehow connected; necessary; the same.

With her eyes open, though, it's harder. The deck is slick with horror and chunks of still-twitching things, and for the first time in her life, Yuna finds she can't dance. Again and again, the Sending steps fail her. Again and again, she ends up back on the ground.

Eventually, she stays there, on her hands and knees in un-namable muck. Her staff is somewhere close, she thinks, but she lacks the strength to find it or pick it up.

She doesn't know how many times she's tried. She doesn't even know how long she's been here. Indistinct and inconclusive, the seconds all feel the same.

_Everything is connected_. Yuna wants to believe but it's so hard. _Nothing is a waste_. Minwu was wrong. She can't touch it. She can't even find herself.

Her fingers curl in something sticky and wet, and around her the world just drifts.

A lost crystal and a broken angel. A Teleport spell and two bodies, hitting the deck. Screaming. Sobbing. The sound of beating wings. An argument. A conclusion she can't bear.

Yuna breathes toxic air and listens, because she can't do anything else.

"What do you mean?" Vaan shouting, vicious and young. "We just can't let her die like that."

"We have to close the Gates of Song, Vaan." Aerith is gentle and ruthless and cruel. "The Lifestream will guide Yuna. We have to detonate – "

The sound of something being thrown. "I don't have to do what you tell me to, you lying – "

"First understand, _then_ speak." Fran cuts him off in choral tones. "For a time, I heard the Green Word again, with the ears of this Hume. I am grateful. She asks a small thing, already decided." She pauses. "Live. This is what I ask of you."

There are more words, but they are just waves that splash in other meaningless noise. She must get up. If she can't get up, they've lost everything. Summoner's catechisms roll around in her mind – _there is no such thing as suffering; there is no such thing as fear; there is only small, small beauty_ – but none of it helps. She stays folded on the deck, forehead pressed to oily scum.

She needs something different, she thinks. Something else to help her stand. And while her mind doesn't respond with anything more than worn out hymns, the Lifestream that surges around her whispers the truth in her ears.

_Everything is connected. Nothing is a waste_.

Yuna doesn't have a choice but to believe it now. It's too pretty a thought for all this violence, but then, what good are beautiful thoughts, if she can't have them here, now? If they do not soften the blow of a tragedy, or keep disaster a step away?

_But perhaps they're not beautiful_, Yuna supposes, and it's this thought that blows the mist from her mind. _Perhaps they're just true._

It is not as hard as Yuna thought it would be to find her staff. Nor as hard as she thought to stand. And when she sees Laguna smile at her from the corner of her eye, there's still enough of her that isn't scared to smile back.

_Now. Find the steps. _

She has never Sent without a full kimono, so the wind feels strange on her skin. But as she closes her eyes and finds the rhythm, she realizes it feels better this way.

Her staff comes up and then it comes down. On the burning deck, her feet rise and fall. She turns and turns and turns again until there's nothing of this horror but a swirl of grey and glimmer that could just be the thoughtless sea.

There is magic everywhere. It flows from her fingers to the crown of her staff to the atoms on the flesh of her friends. And it is just as Minwu said. Living or dead, the energy's the same. It's just a matter of finding it, touching it, setting it free.

She pulls electrons from their orbits. She unwinds their DNA. She feels everything all at once, and it's a little like kissing, she thinks. _Just a little._

Gold light twines with green Lifestream. So braided, they lap the flanks of the Falcon like waves.

The ship is burning up beneath their feet. Whatever spell Aerith has cast on it, it's hurtling into the Gate at immeasurable speed, bound for destruction.

Yuna doesn't mean to hear it. It's a quiet, private moment that should really be left alone. But the magic doesn't discriminate in what it shows her, and she finds herself a spy.

"Bye, Fran," Vaan says, swallowing. "It was nice, seeing you again."

On impact, the Gates of Song shatter, and Yuna Sends them. Without even thinking, she Sends them through.

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER:<strong> Still reeling from their losses, the party arrives in a strange, safe harbor. But the Phantom Village is a place lost in time, and as Aerith and Minwu struggle with their decisions, visitors from past, present and future make for a curious rest.


	11. CVIII: Maybe Just the Known World

The Door of Souls, Chapter VIII: Maybe Just the Known World

**Beta Credit:** Distant Glory: a wonder, really.  
><strong>Thanks (Specific)<strong>: Inkie and IrenIvy and anon reviewers I haven't been able to respond to. You make me smile.  
><strong>Thanks (General): <strong>For reading along, everyone. The beastly beast is beastly, and I appreciate your patience through long chapters, meta! (and adjective) abuse, and long slogs through swamps of angst.

* * *

><p>"<em>We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars<em>_."_

Oscar Wilde, _Lady Windemere's Fan _(Act III)

* * *

><p>In the Phantom Village, it's never any particular time. <em>Or if it is,<em> reasons Nero the Sable, _it doesn't matter._

_Everything's frozen, anyway_. He rolls his eyes. _Everything's always the same_.

Reclined on some idle rooftop, Nero uses the tip of an iron wing to toy with a mote of dandelion fluff that's embedded on the wind. Despite the pressure, it barely moves: trapped as it is with the rest of this place in some castaway pocket of time.

_Poor little village, _he muses, yawning,_ ripped from its moorings; tossed like so much garbage into the void_. With an idle talon, he slices the fluff in half; watches as the scalpeled puffs of gossamer hover, undisturbed. People statues (_or statue-people_?), are locked _in situ_: the standing dead, the conversing dead, the dead awaiting trial, the naked dead, fucking…

_Yes_ – Nero fidgets, a little itchy – _it's all so tragic_. He smirks beneath his bandages. It's also terminally, criminally dull.

There's a placid, corrosive sameness to it all. The same villagers locked in the same trivial gestures. The same homes with locked doors and open windows and cellars fermenting wine and secrets. The same unrotting fruit, words trapped in mouths, water held hostage between the faucet and the drain.

_Same trees_, the list continues, repetitive and stupid and banal_. Same footprints. Same sky. _

Worrying at a stray bandage with pincered fingers, Nero lets his eyes flit over terrain he can recite by rote. It's dusk _(as usual)_ and indecisive semi-darkness quivers over the empty land. _There's enough light to see by_, he notes, _but enough shadow to hide_.

Somewhere in his nervous system, the itch niggles. Since Etro dragged him here, the mako in his suit blisters like allergy, and it's quite tiresome. All he likes about the sensation is that it cuts up the boredom. He plays a game: see if he can soothe himself without scratching. _Fold and unfold wings. Focus darkness over skin._ _Twitch._ _Twitch again._

It doesn't quite work, but it's a momentary respite from the sheer redundancy of it all that Nero supposes will do. After all, Her Providence forbids him from target practice with the villagers. She's been less vigilant lately, so he supposes he could try to snipe one of the smaller ones, but it seems like too much effort.

"Ferryman," Anima enjoys chiding him. Nero's not especially fond of the corpse's affectation – he is no mean servant to any god, let alone the hobbled 'Goddess of Death' – but he likes that he can bother her. "Do you not have something else to occupy your time? A past, perhaps, you might repent?"

_Repent?_ Repent what? And to whom would he offer it, should he ever be so stupid? _The lord sovereign of Deepground, perhaps_? The god of blood transfusions and wire stitches and blunt little surgical scissors?

Shifting his weight over his sits bones, Nero remembers: remembers the sawing of exposed tendon, the tearing of thin skin and that achingly slow _snip, snip, snip_. He shudders. _No_. He will leave repentance to the corpse. She seems to enjoy whining almost as much as smearing herself all over the Last Floor.

_But then again – _Nero tips a brow – _Anima never does have any fun_.

In this way, they are similar, Etro and the corpse. They moan endlessly. They cry and tear up their own skin and then destroy themselves with cloying sentiment for their own keening bastards. It's a waste of considerable potential, and Nero finds it distasteful.

_Some wombs_, he concludes, _are best cauterized_. Having children drives females to hysterics.

Lying back completely, Nero studies the stagnant clouds. All that said, Etro's been quiet lately. When he was first summoned here, She whispered in his darkness – _Chaos, _he corrects, now that he knows – quite often. "_Stained One, I pity you,"_ She'd say, as if Her pity was something that he should covet. That he's gone so long without hearing Her voice tells him that She's even weaker than he thought.

Without her champion, She's more or less trapped. Stuck sleeping on the Last Floor, between Valhalla and the Rift, one of those She pitied will find a way to crush her heart, soon enough.

Soft nausea drifts through his stomach. Even the memory of Her voice makes him ill.

It's an intriguing set of circumstances, and Nero weighs his options. He could try to take advantage of the respite: stretch the rope; see if he can get loose. But then, without Etro's hand, he risks a repeat of the last time. The coming apart under his bandages. Getting lost in all that Chaos. Having to pluck all the souls he'd absorbed out of the mess one by one.

_Losing __**him**__._

The shudder that rolls through him is complete. It slithers through the vacant parts of him that used to brim with _Weiss, Weiss, Weiss._

_Yes_. It was all very deeply unpleasant. So he decides that for now the bargain will be kept. And when he brings this Lightning creature to the Door of Souls, he will be released and there will be no more emptiness. He will find his way back to his brother and they will be one again.

_Always._

Nero closes his eyes and anticipation snaps in his nerves: sweet, hot, thick. "Soon brother," – he lets the words slip from wet, parted lips – "_soon_."

Lifting his hand in front of his face, Nero coils his attention around the mirror fragment he's been holding. He's to deliver this to the Lufenian's little pet mage. The Goddess of Death does not accept damaged goods, and since She's too weak to lift Her champion's brand herself, the task must be left to Minwu.

_Or what's left of Minwu, at any rate_. Nero will grant that between Cid Raines and Cid of the Lufaine, there isn't much. As befits their name, they are quite efficient at what they do, and Nero can respect that.

He shrugs, waits, returns to his examination. _The Mirror of Atropos_. Nero angles it this way and that, watches the light distort and versionize his reflection. If he tilts it one way, it seems like the bandages that cross his face are sewn into his skin. If he goes the other, it's something – _else_. Other features, slender and sharp. Unblemished: without dressing, without infection, without wound.

Himself, reconstructed. _A million timelines away…_

He eyes it, analytical. The world over which Etro presides is peculiar indeed. From what he's been forced to learn of it, all paths lead to a single, inevitable end; and yet still, the haunted mirror taunts. Shows just enough possibility for prisoners to dream of freedom; the already damned, of being redeemed.

Nero narrows his eyes, appreciates the art in such elegant futility. It's no wonder that so many of those who hail from there are even more mad than he.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall_,_" he sing-songs,"who's the strangest of them all?"He toys with the rhyme because he doesn't have much else to do, and one of the creatures he absorbed likes them, but his mind has already left the subject behind.

It's a pointless puzzle anyway. And he is, more importantly, still quite itchy.

Rolling back to a sitting position, Nero clears his thoughts and resumes the more compelling distraction. He folds his wings and then unfolds them. He surveys the mute, paralyzed world below and waits.

_Where are they?_

The wind doesn't move. Nothing does.

He taps his foot, impatient. They're late, and he has a significant number of other matters to attend to.

It's with something close to relief that Nero finally – _finally _– hears it. A whooshing, tearing noise that breaks the fossilized silence. His eyes jump from the mirror to the horizon as he notices the crest of magic that the Summoner bears them in on. It's a turbulent, white-capped thing, and when it hits the earth, it crashes: surging up from the earth in a froth of pyreflies and dirt and drab, bloody bits ofwhite and pink and blue_._

_Ah. _A grin pulls the gag at his mouth. _There they are_.

They skid on the ground until they eventually slide into a jointless, fleshy heap. Nero would compare it to one of the human-shaped skin hills that clogged Midgar after Sephiroth's little Meteor, but this lump seems a bit more lively. _Though not by much._

For a reason he can't quite explain, Nero really does expect there to be noise. Piteous little groans or sighs or other low-octave indicia of pain. But after the rush-thump-crash of arrival, for a long time, there's only more of the same, boundless quiet.

Spidering forward, he knots his brow. Nero can't quite see them, so he untwines a sliver of Chaos from his finger and sends it off to spy. It whispers at him, a little vexed at being set to such a menial task, but he quiets must know of they're dead. It will be extremely inconvenient, if they are.

_Well, Minwu and Etro's avatar, at least_. Those two are the ones that concern him. The others are largely chaff.

"Go, little one_,_" he cajoles.

The Chaos hisses in reply, but it trundles off anyway, obedient. Nero can feel it slither through the still grass, settle amongst their broken bodies, and listen.

"Teefs?" It's the wheedling voice of the boy. Nero is aggrieved that this one has spoken first. He is thoroughly irrelevant. "You okay?"

"I guess," answers the annoying, not-dead one from his world. Her voice is shrill to his ears, and pushes his ear close to a shoulder. "Basically. You? Laguna? Everybody…everybody make it?"

"Two…four…six…I count…_seven_ heads." _The fool, now_. Nero's patience is beginning to wear thin. "All still attached, more or less."

A grating giggle from the Summoner. "Heads are usually either _on _or _off_, I think…"

"Nah." A pause, punctuated by the articulated crack of vertebrae. "With the headache _I've _got_?_ No. There's definitely middle ground, kiddo. But I'm not complaining about the living bit." There's a rustle of fabric. "What about you, Minwu? You still alive in there?"

At this, Nero tenses. This is a question he is interested in.

"Aye." The voice is weak, but it sounds at least three-quarters alive. Which is sufficient for Etro's purposes. _One,_ he counts, _of two_. "Aye. After a fashion. Aerith?"

"I'm fine." Ha. This is the _dead one_, also from his world, whom he has met a few other times. Her voice less annoying than the other one's, although the rest of her makes his skin crawl. "Tifa, is Lightning – "

She hesitates, and Nero doesn't like that at all. He flicks his wings, agitated. "…yeah…" the response is soft and pained, like a bruise. "…yeah, I think so."

Retracting the still-petulant Chaos, Nero hops to his feet. _There_. _Two. _Stretching, he flips the mirror fragment in his hand and is satisfied.

He has what he needs to make his delivery. He is one step closer to Weiss, and the thought tingles through him, fleet-footed and light. It is everything he can do not to tap his foot, comport himself in a way his brother might deem unseemly.

Surveying the roof, Nero looks for a way down. Cosmos' refugees will likely drag themselves to the Phantom Village Inn, and he must find a way into Minwu's chambers where they can discuss this. _Alone._

There's much planning to be done now. Much left –

"_Bring her to Me, Stained One. The need has grown great."_

Nero crumples at the sound of Etro's voice. He had forgotten how shocking it is. How, even weak, it bolts through his bones, digs its fingers through his mind. His head snaps back, and even the Chaos that whispers beneath his skin halts, heeds its mistresses' call.

"_Valhalla waits. I wait."_

Holding his arms over his ears, he tries to block Her out, but it's useless. Her sick and sickening voice is everywhere at once. And while Nero can still feel his own desires, the weight of Her pity is overwhelming. Sadness he has almost forgotten how to feel presses down on him until he finds himself back where he belongs while in Her presence.

Bowing. Scraping. On the ground.

His mouth lolls open, but he doesn't make a sound.

"_My Stained One: do you not answer?"_

"Yes, your Providence," he finally replies, choked. "I understand."

"_Then go. She is needed. I must have her."_

Breathing heavily, face flush to concrete, Nero waits until She leaves him and then shudders. It takes him some time to rise, and when he does, it's no easy thing to find his feet beneath him. He stumbles, presses a hand to his chest, tries to shake Her music from his mind.

It's difficult. _Very difficult_. And it's unhelpful that he cannot seem to stop shaking.

Rubbing a temple, Nero blinks. He is not so delusional to think himself a compassionate creature, but if this is the fate that awaits this Lightning, it is a raw, sore one indeed.

Better to be chained, as he was. To not be taunted by the hope of escape.

Letting out a small growling noise, Nero collects himself for a moment before noting a ladder in the corner. He supposes he could simply ask the Chaos to take him to Minwu's quarters, but that would likely alert the Summoner or the dead-one, and he is not ready to make his presence generally known.

He starts down it slowly. The iron wings weigh him down, but that's no matter. They were a vanity of Deepground. He never had any wish to fly.

Without another thought, he vanishes down the ladder and slips into the alleys of the Phantom Village: another patch of darkness in the borderless dusk.

* * *

><p>A good sitting-rock, Laguna would like to tell the whole world, is a rare and beautiful thing. Not as rare and beautiful as say, one of those aged scotches everyone's always telling him he should like, or even a solid afternoon nap, but still: just like the best of any good, ordinary thing, it's <em>definitely<em> something worth appreciating.

_Worth taking your time with._

_**This**_, _for example_, he thinks, settling his tired and (_more than_) slightly burned ass on a smooth stone, _is a quality sitting-rock._ Nice and rain-worn. Perched on an overlook just above the Phantom Village Inn. It's not the Esthari Ritz or anything special like that, but hey, compared to where he just was, he'd say it's pretty near perfect.

_Quiet. _He folds his ankle over his knee and leans forward; lets the intoxicating sound of absolutely nothing sing in his ears._ No face-eating things. Good view. Did I mention no face-eating things?_

Whatever. If he did, it bears repeating. No face-eating things is a definite plus to this place, despite the fact that it's otherwise pretty damn creepy. What with the weird frozen people and the perpetual and not especially pretty sunset and everything.

Laguna yawns, focuses on the positives. War's one of those things where a guy's gotta take the moments as they come. Ask for too much, and you'll likely spend the rest of your short life in a funk, but wait long enough and even the worst of times will eventually serve you up with something sweet and small. Some nice, normal thing that makes it easy to remember that life really is a good thing. Worth not giving up on.

Once, while he and Kiros were stuck on one of those scouting missions that always seem to take up so much more of a soldier's time than the glossy (_lying bastard_) recruitment pamphlets say they will, they came up with a phrase for it: "best in class moment." They'd hand 'em out for things like a favorite song coming in over the radio; finding out the re-up station had fresh, clean socks; a night of leave spent getting right sauced under a sky dipped in stars, just talking…

Laguna smiles but then shivers. His coat went down with the _Falcon, _and this place must've frozen in autumn because it's chilly in just his tank top. He misses the hell out of those he can remember of them, anyway. Not just because he was pretty damn young and good-looking, and not just because they had nothing to do with running for his life through an Interdimensional Rift – _though that's a bonus – _but because it was all going to be this wild fucking adventure. Filled with wine and women and derring-do and all that other good stuff.

_Pianos and books. Over-stuffed cigars. Those cute little cocktail umbrellas __**she**__ used to stick in girly drinks._

The memory's fuzzy, but he thinks that Ellone used to take them sometimes and decorate his guns with them. _"You try, Uncle Laguna. It's __**pretty**__."_

A laugh whispers out from between parched lips. She was a special kid, he thinks he remembers. _Not too quick on firearm safety though…_

He squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the raw, flakey burns on his skin, the rumble in his stomach, the goosebumps crawling down his spine. Back then, nothing was going to go wrong. Nothing – _nobody_ – was going to get lost. Not Kain to that oversized hero complex of his. Not Lightning to whatever evil thing that's stealing her humanity by inches.

_Hell. _Nothis entire family to a hole in his memory he can't seem to fill up.

The laugh dissolves into a long breath. He's _really_ not the type to get all angsty or anything, but he just can't seem to shake this feeling that he's missing something important. Like not just "Oh, shit, I just spent the night with you and what's-your-name-again" important, but _important_,important.

It was something that Minwu said. He can't stop thinking about it. "_Are you sure it's faeries that come to you in dreams_?"

Frustrated, Laguna starts shaking his knee. _No._ _No, I'm not_. It's _clearly_ his kid. And if Minwu's dropping hints in that patented "All-Knowing-All-Seeing" white-mage-type way of his, it's also _clearly_ not some shock-induced hallucination curable with some quality time in the loony bin. Sighing, he closes his eyes. No, knowing _who _it is isn't the problem. It's knowing what – on _any_ earth – she's talking about...

A small, warm hand coming to rest on his bare shoulder snaps him out of whatever it was he was trying to remember, and he's glad of it. He's beat up, his head's swimming in circles, and while he knows he'll have to corner Minwu about it sometime, he figures it doesn't have to be tonight.

Tonight – he closes his eyes, leans into the touch – he thinks he'll just let it ride.

"Are you alright, Laguna?" He knew it was Yuna from the lightness of the touch itself, but it's good to hear her voice anyway. "I didn't think I'd find you up here. I thought you might be sleeping…"

Laguna shimmies over on the rock, pats the open space beside him. "Who, me?" He winks up at her. "Intrepid soldier? Firer of ancient cannons and carrier of First Mages? I'm _beyond_ sleep."

Laughing softly, Yuna settles into the offered space, sets her gaze on the paralyzed village below. "_Maybe._ But I don't think so." She nudges him with her shoulder and flashes him a quick, glow-in-the-dark smile. "You _do_ sound a little delirious, you know."

Laguna makes an exaggerated show of pressing a hand to his chest. "I'm _hurt, _darlin'," he feigns. "We're travelling with Mr. and Mrs. Vague-a-Lot and_ I'm _the delirious one?" He pauses, blinks, turns a little serious. "Although, how are they? Really? Last I saw, Minwu was cut up pretty bad, and Light – "

"They're resting." Yuna turns all the way around to look at him. Her face is still streaked with gore, but if he focuses on the bright in the blue-green eyes, he doesn't have to think about it too much. "I saw Sir Minwu to his quarters. And Tifa and Lady Aerith are with Light. I was going to stay, but – "

"Yeah." Laguna finishes the thought for her. He's still not so sharp on what happened up there on deck, but whatever it was – from the way Aerith was stewing and Tifa was saying, _well_, _nothing_ – it couldn't have been good. He breathes out, bends down to pluck a piece of long grass from the ground, but just like everything else here, it's stuck in time. It won't move.

"Any idea what happened up there?" he asks, giving up. "I mean, I had my hands full at the time, but it seemed like something serious."

The skin between Yuna's brows crinkles. Laguna can tell that she's looking for words to describe what she saw. "I was concentrating on the Sending so I…I couldn't make out most of it. But something happened to Lightning." She pauses, purses her lips. "Something strange, and Tifa got scared. She gave up her crystal to Raines. She just…gave up, I think."

"_What_?" The second the words are out of Yuna's mouth, memories of the thing Lightning almost turned into barge into his mind in full HD. Unwanted, he remembers the greyness, the blood, the fucking _smell._ And the terrified disgust he feels doesn't let up when he realizes that she easily could have been one of the demons that attacked them yesterday. _That we blew half to hell without a split second's thought._

Bile rises in the back of his throat and he swallows it.

"Did she…I mean, _was she_…" Yuna didn't extrapolate, so Laguna forces a sour-tasting follow-up question out of his mouth. "She turn on us again? She turn into that…whatever that was again?"

"No, it wasn't like that." Yuna's hand snakes out to Laguna's knee, immediately comforting. "Her l'Cie brand's fine for now, I think. Aerith and I helped her control it. It's something else, something different."

Laguna laughs, pitchy and nervous but more than a little relieved. "Good different? Bad different?" He hooks his fingers into his belt loop, tries on a smirk that doesn't quite fit. "I mean, there's only so many different kinds of monsters you can turn into."

It's Yuna's turn to fidget now. To retract her hand; to nervously push a string of hair behind her ear; to stare off at nothing in particular. "But that's my point, I think," she says, pulling at the frayed edge of her skirt. "What scared Tifa so much…I mean, Light didn't _turn into_ anything. It still looked like her on the outside, but…"

"But what?" Laguna puts his hand on her scraped knee, tries not to think too hard about the gummy stuff under his palm.

"Something's changing her. Completely_._" She pulls her eyes away from whatever she's looking at and looks at him instead. "I mean, Raines ran her _through_, Laguna. I couldn't see it all, but" – she shudders, and Laguna squeezes her knee harder – "there was so much blood, and the _angle_…it should have killed her. It should have killed her _instantly._ That she's alive…it doesn't make any sense."

"Hey, now," Laguna quips, making an attempt at easy and light. "You're making it sound worse than it is. I mean, there are worse things to have than invulnerability. I think we could all – "

"No." The interruption's so quick and rare and perfect that Laguna's mouth clamps shut right away. "_No_. I don't think anybody wants what's happening to her. This type of power doesn't come without a price. Whatever's – _whoever's _– giving it to her is taking something in return. I can't…I mean, I'm not sure if Aerith and Minwu know more, but whatever it is…I don't think she'll be able to get it back again." Her voice goes distant, somber, sure. "It's gone. I know it is."

Laguna lets the silence grow fat between them as a cold conclusion settles in his stomach. He doesn't want to say it. _Fuck_, the _last_ thing he wants to do is say it. But the evidence has been piling up ever since Light blew that miles-wide crater in the desert, and he can see from the sadness that's settled in Yuna's eyes that she sees it too.

_Hell,_ he thinks. _Probably saw it before any of us._

He sighs audibly and then pauses, chews the words a little before he just spits them out. "She's not human anymore, is she?"

"No." The answer comes without hesitation. "No, Laguna. I…I don't think so."

As the words wander off into the stillness, Laguna does two things: breathes out and looks down. He watches the grass not move and the sun not set and wonders just how the hell they got here. Lightning Farron might be just about the sharpest pain in the ass he's ever served with, but she's a damn good soldier and an even better soul.

She sacrificed just about everything she had to close that Rift. First her life, and now, _well_. Now something even more important, he guesses.

_No fair, kiddo. _He grinds his jaw. The hand that doesn't have Yuna's knee it clenches to a fist. _Good ones are supposed to get happy endings. _That's how he'd write the story, anyway. Or would've, before he'd given up his pen for his MP-7.

It's complete bullshit, but Laguna sucks in a breath and pushes the thought from his mind because it isn't over yet. Not even close. Besides, the universe is doing a good enough job beating them up already. _Sitting her and moping'll only help it along._

"But she's okay now, right?" Laguna speaks a little too loudly. "There's _that _at least. And an alive, not-quite human Light is better than no Light at all, right? We'll figure something out." He smiles, chucks her chin. "We did escape the demon bat-manikins, didn't we? We can do that, I'm pretty sure we can do anything."

Yuna's small, quicksilver laugh warms the cold space in Laguna's chest. "Bat-mankins…?"

"That's right." He offers her a wolfish, lopsided grin. "Like Batman, except, with, you know, _manikins_. Now, don't go using that name without my permission. It's copyrighted material. I'm gonna turn this _whole thing_ into a movie when I get back to Esthar." He winks. "Make a fortune."

"Don't worry." Yuna punctuates her answer by laying a small hand on his forearm. Carefully, so she avoids the burns. "I don't think anyone would want _– _" she stops herself, unwilling to be rude, even though he's certain she knows it's a joke. "I mean, of course I won't. I'm sure it'll be a big hit."

"You know it," he replies, jaunty. "Who knows, we figure out how to get home, maybe there's a way you could come visit Esthar. Be El Presidente's date to the premier?"

Laguna can feel Yuna tense. The little fingers curl just slightly so the ragged nails chew into his skin. Concerned, the smile slides off his face. "Hey, I'm sorry," he says.

"No." She smiles. "No. It's nothing. I'd…I'd like that, actually. Right after I get back from Zanarkand…"

Blinking, Laguna cocks his head. There's something in the way that she says that word that puts little cracks in his chest, thickens the air in his lungs. Without thinking, he lifts his hand to her cheek and uses his thumb to push some of the crusty grease away. She doesn't resist, but he puts his hand down pretty soon anyway. His fingers are so dirty, all they do is push the grime around.

Her skin's soft, though. And it reminds him of another sunset, another place, another girl.

"Zanarkand?" He repeats the name because he likes the sound of it. It sounds mysterious. A secret-type place. _Filled with dreams,_ like they say in those terrible dime-store romance books.

"Nothing. It's…nothing." If there was a thread of sadness in Yuna's voice just now, she folds it up neatly and then tucks it away. She smiles. "Just one question, though…"

Laguna clears his throat. "Shoot, darlin'."

"What's…what's a _Batman_?"

The bark of laughter that Laguna lets out surprises him. Stretching, he rolls an arm lazily over her shoulder. "Don't worry about it." Squeezing, he's surprised at how warm and right she feels. "It's just kid-stuff. Just a joke."

"Oh. Really?" She pauses for a second, like she's seriously thinking about it, but when she speaks again her worn-out voice is with mischief. "Sounds a bit cheesy, Laguna."

"Yeah. Yeah, probably does. Probably is." Laguna pulls her closer and a cozy quiet opens up between them before he continues. "Although I think after a buffet of death and destruction, some cheese is a pretty good. Breaks up that nasty, ashy gunpowder taste."

He feels the softness of her laugh before she replies. "Yes," she says. "I think that's right."

It takes a long time for Laguna to speak again. The unyielding stillness of the night, the company, this place seems to beg for silence, but he wants to say it anyway. "He really is a lucky guy, Tidus."

Yuna doesn't answer. But after a while, she sets her cheek against his shoulder and leaves it there. Not long afterwards, her eyes close, and he feels the articulate brush of lashes against burned and blistered skin.

Breathing quietly, Laguna rests his head against hers and lets the unexpected softness of her filthy hair float through him. It's so regular and soothing; so quiet and real, that he can almost let himself believe there's nearly nothing wrong. That it's just an ordinary moment; an ordinary day.

_Best in class moment_, he thinks, careful not move._ It's real fragile, after all_. He doesn't want to break it.

* * *

><p>At the very, very back of the Phantom Village Inn, down the hall from Minwu's quarters, there's a small, careful sick room.<p>

Much like any other sick room anywhere, it has a single bed – _for the sick person _– a utilitarian night-stand – _for the sick person's medications – _and a chair – _for the sick person's doctor. _To let in what little light there is, there's a tiny open window framed with gauzy, indistinctly colored curtains. If there were a wind – Aerith closes her exhausted eyes, imagines – the fabric would blow about_: _thoughtless, ephemeral, insignificant.

Like the ribbons she tied on the psalters, once a hundred years ago in a church that everyone's forgotten. _Bet they're lost now,_ she thinks, thankfully not feeling much about it anymore. Probably chasing themselves round in circles, somewhere in Midgar's poisoned streets.

The room smells like rubbing alcohol and potions; sterile dressings, iodine. And other than the crooked bunch of undying lilac in the corner, there are no decorations anywhere. Just a shelf filled with stacks of bandages and sheets, all white and precisely folded. The way that Minwu likes.

Shifting in the wooden chair, Aerith sighs, dips a silk cloth in a bowl of scalding water and watches the steam curl around her hand. _It's a very ordinary room, really_. The only thing that stands out about it is the patient. The anything _but_ normal woman who's lying here, beautiful face slack and sleeping, as if nothing's happened to her all.

Slowly, Aerith picks up one of Lightning's limp arms and continues wiping away at a bloody crust of scab and dirt and clotted crystal. It's immaculate, the skin that emerges. No bruises. No lacerations. No burns.

She takes another long, cleansing stroke. _No, there's nothing ordinary about her. Nothing at all._

Breathing out, Aerith sets the cloth in the water again and leaves it there for longer than she should. The heat reddens her fingers, and when she wrings it out see-through bits of skin and membrane come off it in strings.

Aerith blinks, momentarily mesmerized. _Black. Clear. Crimson. _The oily twist dances, and for a second she wonders whether that's what the water looked like in the Temple of the Ancients when they left her body there. Or if what she does for Lightning, Tifa did for her. _Clean the blood off, that is_. So she didn't have to return to the Lifestream a messy wreck.

Furious with herself, Aerith gives the cloth a vicious squeeze. This isn't something she's got time to dwell on. And besides, what she's doing – _what Lightning's going to have to do_ – has nothing to do with death. _Not her own, anyway_.

Although without Tifa's crystal, who knows whether it's even possible anymore. Whether they even have a _chance_ to save anybody's life, anybody's world.

_Oh, Tifa._ Aerith makes a small, disgusted sound. _Tifa, why?_

_It'll be so hard to do it this way._ She's so angry she can feel the tension knot the muscles of her jaw. _And we don't have any more __**time**__ – _

Cutting off her own thoughts, Aerith plunges the cloth back into the bowl with more force than she intends. It clatters, and the noise expands until it fills up the entire room.

"I'm _sorry, _Aerith." Tifa's been silent since they walked in here, sheltering herself in the shadow of the doorframe and trying to make herself as small as possible. "I didn't – "

"It's alright." Aerith hears how thin and irritable her voice sounds, but she can't seem to control it. In fact, it takes almost all her energy to just sit here, not whirl on her friend _– _her best friend, she'd thought once_ – _in a rage. "What's done is done. We can't change it."

Aerith hears Tifa shift her weight from one foot to another, the way she always did when she was nervous. "I know you're mad at me. But I really thought…" She stops for a second, and the floorboards creak beneath those heavy rubber soles. "I…I don't know. _Raines_ – "

"Is a _monster._" The razored words cut both ways out of her mouth, but she means them. "An absolute monster. How could you ever believe him? I mean he – " She exhales, gathers her wits. "Just, how _could _you?"

"I don't know." The voice Tifa uses to respond cowers: small and brittle, it sits in her throat and tries to hide. "He said you were lying. That Lightning was going to end up like _him_. I just couldn't let that happen. I just couldn't lose…_I mean_…with you and Cloud and everyone…I just couldn't lose her, too."

The hand Aerith's using to loosen the hardened filth at Lightning's collar freezes along with the rest of her. She has no idea why what Tifa's saying makes her so angry. It shouldn't. Of course Tifa'd be scared. Of course she wouldn't know what was at stake. But even still, Aerith can't understand how someone so strong – so goodhearted and selfless and kind – could be so gullible.

_Then again_ – Aerith shrugs off the shock and rubs harder at Lightning's skin – _Tifa never really did understand._ The fight against ShinRa: everything with Cloud; trusting everyone she every met…

Aerith hates herself for the conclusion, but she can't help but think it was all just so _selfish_. Just Tifa Lockheart wouldn't have to be alone.

_Yes_. She wrings the cloth out over the bowl, listens to the sad, silly plops of water falling back into more water. She does hate herself for thinking it. But she does anyway.

Slowly, intently, Aerith wets the cloth again, forces herself to do what the Lifestream asks of her. _Be gentle, forgiving, want nothing for yourself_. Try to forget that the girl who's saying she can't lose anyone else is the one who got to live.

Jealousy that she thought she'd left behind flashes, hot and fast, but irrelevant. _Who is going to live_, Aerith corrects brutally. _Who is __**going**__ to live._

Closing her eyes, Aerith offers the best response she can. "It's not _about _that, Tifa." Leaving the cloth where it lies, she uses her fingers to separate blood-stiff strands of hair, pulling strings of rose pink from clumps of oxidized brown. "There's more at stake than just...losing friends."

"Okay, but then..." Again, the sound of floorboards creaking treads on Aerith's nerves. "Then what _is_ it about? I mean…are you keeping something from us? What – what was Cid talkingabout?"

_And there it is._ For some reason, it's this small question that siphons off some of Aerith's rage. Because as furious as she is at Tifa – _her naivety; all the things she got to keep _– she knows that all the lies here are hers.

Necessary evils, she knows. But evils, nonetheless. Just like what she did to Vaan. What she would do again and again, if it meant this horror would actually mean something good, in the end.

Placing soaked hands in her lap, Aerith lets the quiet fester. Dirty water seeps through the fabric and runs down her skinned knees, and as she waits for enough time to pass for Tifa to feel ashamed, she wonders how she's managed to become such a horrible person.

"I can't believe you just asked me that." Aerith says what will hurt the most. "After all this time, after everything we've been through, you really believe him and not me?"

It's sharp and short and pained, the way Tifa pulls in her breath. "Aerith, wait. You know…that's not what I meant."

"I don't know what you meant, Tifa." Absently, Aerith toys with the ruined fabric under Lightning's left breast. Lifting the flap, she can see a jagged-toothed scar: the only imperfection – the only evidence of violence – she's been able to find on her skin. "If you don't trust me, you don't trust me. There's nothing I can do."

"Aerith. _No._" Tifa sounds like she's just retreated even further into the shadow, even deeper into herself. "It's just that why would Raines…I mean…I'm _sorry._"

Fingering the cloth, Aerith neither looks up nor down. The scar is terrible. Puckered and raised, it's just so ugly, so cruel. "It's okay," she says after a beat. There's no need to push Tifa harder. She's done about as much damage as she needs. "You're just tired. A lot's happened. You should go and get some rest."

"Well…" Tifa's voice cracks a little. "But what about you?"

"I'll be fine," Aerith says, expressionless. "Maybe you should go find Vaan. You guys are close, and I think he needs some cheering up. After Fran, I mean."

"I'd rather…" Tifa's voice hasn't gotten any less small or sad, and Aerith crushes the guilt that bubbles in her stomach. "I mean, I _want…_"

"Please, Tifa." Aerith keeps the words clipped. "Just please go."

"But – I'm sorry." The words come out in barely a whisper, but they linger long after Tifa's footsteps have disappeared down the hall.

"Me too, Missy." The old endearment doesn't quite fit in her mouth. She hangs her head, just a little. "Me too."

It takes Aerith a while to gather her thoughts after Tifa leaves. She feels heavy, she thinks. Like all the lies have an actual weight, and they're pushing down on her shoulders, bending her spine. Leaning over to look at Lightning again, she shakes her head, pushes an almost clean strand of hair from the other woman's face.

_Funny_, Aerith thinks. All these years thinking about Lightning, bringing her to Etro's Throne, gambling that she – _and everyone else_ – will make the right choice, when the time comes, she's never really stopped to look at her. How youngshe is. How she's spent her whole life fighting or killing or both. How, yes, _this_ is the person whose future…whose whole future…

Lifestream chatters in her ears. _"You shouldn't lie to her. At least don't __**lie**__…"_

"Be quiet." She mutters, a little irate that even after everything she's done, the Planet won't leave her alone, just for a little while. "What do you know about it?"

"I _know_ – " At the sound of Lightning's voice, Aerith nearly falls out of her chair. "That I've got a fucking _bitch_ headache."

Scrambling back to a fully upright position, Aerith's eyes go wide. She doesn't understand. Even if Etro's reaching out to Lightning early, lending her whatever remains of her power, there was _so_ much blood-loss…

Collecting herself, Aerith smiles, doesn't let the surprise show up in her face or voice. "Well," she says, as brightly as she can. "I guess I don't have to ask how you feel."

"No." The word coming out of Lightning's mouth sounds slow and swollen. "You don't. What happened to me?"

"How much do you remember?"

Lightning blinks, lolls her face to one side to rest in the tangled dregs of her hair. "Dead asshole. Giant sword."

"That covers most of it, actually." Aerith answers, laughing softly. "You were hurt. But it wasn't fatal."

Almost automatically, Lightning's hand goes to the scar under her left breast. She feels the ridge of it, traces the slash with fingertips that know exactly what they're feeling, what it means. "It should have been," she says softly.

"You and I both know that's not true." Aerith doesn't volunteer any information Lighting doesn't already know. "Not for you. Not anymore."

"Okay." Lightning nods: as accepting, Aerith thinks, as anyone really could be. "Fair enough. Is it this fucking brand again? Is that _thing_ getting loose?"

"Not exactly." Mindful of the whispers of the Lifestream, Aerith doesn't lie, but she doesn't tell the truth either. "But that's why I'm here: what I wanted to tell you. Anima was right. Minwu and I, we've been studying it…" She pauses. "We think it's possible we can remove it. Heal you. For good."

"_Wait_." If Lighting had other questions, Aerith watches as the suspicion evaporates from her expression. Her eyes go sharp, alert: like a child's when you shout her name above the crowd. "You can do that?"

"Yes." Aerith looks up at her, and the relief she sees in Lightning's face just about breaks her heart. She goes on. Gives her just the good news. "Give us time, Lightning, but yes, we think we can."

* * *

><p>Sitting knees-to-chest in some intestinal alley in the guts of the Phantom Village, Vaan thumbs the edge of his new dagger and narrows his eyes at, well, <em>nothing<em>.

Nothing in particular, anyway.

_Garbage maybe,_ he concludes, fastening his gaze on a hulking pile of tin or scraps or whatever. _Probably._ Garbage is about the one constant in the universe. _Every city everywhere has it_. Even the screwed-up ones floating around the Rift.

_Whatever. _He scratches his nose with a free finger._ Doesn't matter_. Everything's frozen here so if it _is_ garbage, he can't smell it. And even if he could, it doubts it would bug him. After all, although he knows he's as good a sky pirate as half of them out there – _Fran basically said so _– he's still most at home on the streets.

This is where he grew up. And whatever the sky has to offer – clouds underfoot and overhead, the crazy-sexy curve of the whole world out his window – _this_ is where he'll always belong.

_So no_. The garbage isn't what bugs him. What bugs him – he stops the repetitive thumbing and just holds the blade up to his eyes – is everything else.

He doesn't even have words anymore for how pissed off he is. _With everything_.

_It's insane_. He catches the amber light on his dagger then tilts it up and down, watches it bleed over the steel. There's nothing about what's happened to them that makes any sense at all. Nobody's explained to him what a "Door of Souls" even is, and how the hell they're supposed to open it. Or why Teefs always goes off into those freak trances. Or how Aerith seems to know everything but can't _explain _anything and acts like she can just do whatever because she's some sacred, magic – he doesn't know – lamb or something…

_And_ _Fran._ He closes his eyes and will absolutely, _seriously not_, cry one more time. He will not remember the burning deck, and _mother of hell_, all that blood, and the way he thought he heard her scream.

He didn't think Viera could sound like that. He didn't think anyone could sound like that.

Vaan tightens his lips, lets his eyes creak open. All he can do is breathe through it. All he can do is stare at this knife, and take off on this walk, and not punch people in the face.

"_Do mind the temper," _Vaan can hear Balthier tell him like it was some kind of genius discovery. _"A man can ruin a lot of fine shirts with random violence." _

Despite how crappy he feels, Vaan snorts at the memory. Balthier always did have to sound like he knew everything, even when he didn't. Even when he was just as angry and confused as everyone else. Maybe _especially_ when he was just as angry and confused as everyone else_._

Vaan shrugs. He guesses everyone needs a place to hide once in a while. _Even him_.

Breathing out, Vaan hops to his feet and re-sheathes his dagger. _It's still not_ _right._ He doesn't get why he can remember Balthier and Fran and Pen so clearly now, but there are still these holes everywhere. Like his mind's this landscape with booby-trap craters in it. He could be walking down a path that seems familiar and then_ boom_. The ground just opens up under his feet and all of a sudden everything's just gone.

Agitated, he closes his fist over his buckler strap. _And it's not like Dissidia-amnesia either_. That felt like his life was literally right _there_, right on the tip of his tongue. This feels like something else. Maybe like the one thing that'd connect all these dots just doesn't exist anymore.

For a while after they lost the _Falcon, _Vaan had thought it was because he was so broken up about Fran. But even though he misses her, he knows that's not it.

It's something more important than that. It's _someone_ more important than that.

The puddle Vaan taps his foot in doesn't splash or ripple. It just sits, unbroken and still: stuck in place.

Making a sharp, disgusted noise, he shoulders out of the alley. He's thought about this too much already and he's sick of it. He needs to clear his head, so he does what he's always done, he thinks. Wanders. Picks a random direction and just walks off in it.

As he moves – idling down narrow canals of cobblestone that wind over each other in knots – Vaan feels the added bulk of his new crossbow between his shoulder blades, his new short-sword at his hip. The weight's comforting: solid. He takes in a long suck of motionless air and one side of his lip twitches up. _It's good to have weapons back, at least_. They make him feel like even if he'd rather eat a plate of raw Malboro than trust the people who brought him here, he can at least defend himself.

Which is a good thing, he thinks. Because this place gives him a serious case of the creeps.

Stepping cautiously around a little kid frozen mid-tantrum, Vaan lets his eyes prowl over the streets, hovering for random periods of time on all the truly strange things that fill them. There's a woman, for one, tossing the contents of a bucket out of some open window; but whatever the liquid is, it's just stuck in the air like shattered bits of rainbow. And there's a fire too, that someone's started in the public forge, and the sparks that fly off it look like they've been preserved in wax. But still, he thinks what screws him up the most are the petrified-people's eyes.

_They're so_ – he doesn't even know how to put it – _alive-looking_. Completely motionless, yeah. But also like there's something inside them that's desperate to keep going. Like they're wide awake but can't move: trapped in the act; only want wanting to finish whatever it was they started.

Vaan shudders, decides not to look too closely. It doesn't help that the stuck sunset's poured a piss-colored glow on everything. Or that the crumbling buildings cluster together so closely. _A horde of witches, maybe. Or something like that._

Reflexively, he lets his hand drift down to the hilt of his dagger again_._ _Right. _Definitely good to have weapons back.

He walks for a while longer in silence – periodically knifing around or over bits and pieces of this village's castaway life – and lets his mind skim over the surface of things. It's weird, but even after everything that's happened here, with Kain and Light and Teefs and that truly disturbed Raines guy, he can't help but wonder about the people they left behind in Dissidia.

This whole thing was for _them_, after all. So they could get a chance to go home.

Neatly ducking from a main street into another broken-necked alley, he wonders how they're doing. Bartz and silent-Squall the lion boy and that paper-doll-looking girl he found, the one with the empty eyes. And the Onion Knight too. _His little brother_.

The smile Vaan smiles is crooked, but it feels good anyway. Probably the last thing the Onion Knight ever really_ needed_ was an older brother. With that speed he could cut most of the rest of them to ribbons. But it felt right, for some reason, to be looking out for someone.

Even if they don't remember him back, he hopes they're okay. He really, really does.

Pausing for a moment, he crouches, looks up through the narrow gap between the buildings up at the tea-colored sky. The motion pushes the hilt of his dagger into his stomach, but he doesn't mind because looking up always makes him feel better. And the wider the distance between him and the sky, the more impressive it all seems. Like the sky is telling him secrets or something. Like that's where all the answers are.

"_We are all in the gutter."_ Balthier again: pensive this time, swirling red-brown brandy in the bottom of a snifter. _"But some of us are looking at the stars."_

Vaan feels his smile even itself out a bit. He feels better, he thinks. It's just a little, but he'll take it. He's survived on less.

Closing his eyes, he lets the quiet seep in and some of the anger seep out. He actually figures he'd be perfectly happy to stay this way for a while – not looking at any of the sinister things that live in this town – except for that odd, shambling noise he thinks he hears.

That – _wait_, _oh __**crap**__, oh __**seriously, **__not again_ – he definitely hears.

In a single, tidy movement, Vaan's back on his feet with his back pressed up against the alley wall. Because of the noise it'd make, he doesn't want to draw any weapons, so he just breathes as shallowly and silently as possible. He just watches.

He can feel his heartbeat racket in his ribs, but he wills it down. Probably the only thing he wants right now is no more rotting crystal zombies. He's had about as much as he can take of them, _thanks_.

Vaan stays bolted in place still for long enough to think he might have imagined what he heard. He's just about to relax when he sees it. Something – _no, not zombie-looking – _tall, he thinks. Definitely shaped like a human, and a guy, but it's not Laguna or Minwu. And there's something hooked over his shoulder…

He blinks.

Then he blinks again.

_No way._

It's literally _everything _Vaan can do not to suck in a really loud breath. Or to laugh out loud: because if he's seeing who he thinks he's seeing, drifting through the alley between frozen trash and people then he's looking at a ghost.

Although frankly – and he _really_ hates the fact that this is true – a ghost would be about the most normal thing he's seen in forever.

"Kain?" Vaan takes a shy step out of the sheltering shadow. Every instinct he's got tells him to stay hidden, but if there's even an off chance this is the real thing; that the one guy they're missing survived that vicious, impossible fall... "_Kain?_"

At the sound of his voice, the silhouette near the edge of the alley goes still, the way that animals do sometimes when they're being hunted. But as it turns to look at him, the tension bleeds out. The movements go easy and rangy. _Relaxed._ An arm is raised. It beckons him forward.

Vaan moves cautiously. He's not quite sure what to think. One by one, the features that appear out of the ochre dark_ seem_ like Kain. Not that he ever really saw a lot of Kain that wasn't glowering dragon mask, but still. There's the jawline. The ashy, bloody lip-stain. The strange purple eyes he's seen once or twice before.

"Aye." The voice is as curt and superior-sounding as ever.

Breaking into an ambling jog, Vaan rushes a few more paces down the alley, through unsplashing puddles of waste and stagnant water. Up close, there's no question that it's Kain's face, but still something seems kinda wrong with it. He's not all that familiar with Kain's non-smirking, non-dragon-looking expressions, but he can't _ever_ remember seeing even the lower half of his face so relaxed, so unguarded.

"Man." Vaan's not out of breath when he stops, but he feels his adrenaline pick up anyway. "I thought you were dead."

"An exaggeration." Kain folds his arms and smirks. "I assume our allies informed you that I fell. After our little adventure on the bridge I only remember waking up here."

"I don't know." It's true, but Vaan's still wary, wondering why it is Kain sounds like he's talking about the weather when they haven't seen each other in weeks. "From what Light says, that was an insane fall."

Kain shrugs. "We ought to have died in Dissidia, oughtn't we? I'm not one to question."

Fidgeting, Vaan's right hand sneaks just a little sideways from where he's hooked this thumb in a beltloop. A little closer to his dagger. He remembers what Light said now, about somebody who looked like Kain, ambushing them on the bridge; thinks maybe she shouldn't have been so hasty jumping out…

"Yeah, I guess," Vaan says, still probing. "I mean, just waking up here is one thing. But you're not even injured…"

"Who knows?" The man sends him a slow mile that seems detached from his face. "The Rift's a strange place, boy, filled with traps and miracles both. Other than one's allies, one must be on one's guard."

It might be the reference to the Rift that does it. Or maybe it's the 'boy'. Or the vicious twist to Kain's smile that Vaan's never once seen on the guy's face. But whatever it is, he's grateful for it because his dagger's out to block a savage overhead strike before it can take his face off.

"Thanks for the tip." Flipping back, Vaan spits the response and crouches, blade at the level of his eyes. "But I don't think you're my ally. And you're definitely not Kain."

"Wrong again." The smile on the man's face broadens, and Vaan thinks of all the eerie things he's seen today, this actually might be the worst. "I most certainly am."

* * *

><p>Alone in his chambers, reclining in his bed, Minwu waits. He grits his teeth, and he closes his eyes, and he waits for the nerve-splitting pain to which he has become accustomed.<p>

He waits for his skin to slide open. _Nothing_. He waits for the feeling of something hot and viscous to slither down his spine. _Still nothing. _He waits for nausea to cramp his stomach, for the sick taste of vomit to rise in his throat. _More nothing._

Sighing, he dares to hope. He twinges in anticipatory disappointment, and yet – _merciful, benevolent, nothing._

For all the discipline Minwu has forced on himself, it's not possible to control the shuddering breath that wracks through his lungs. The absence of pain is so profound, he feels it like pleasure, and it tiptoes over his nerves, swift and light.

His eyes flash open. Pulling his cowl from his face, he inhales deeply of the cinnamon scented incense that Yuna was kind enough to light. He drinks in the sight of the books he left open on his desk; the ink and parchment paper; the quill that curves from the pot like the turn of a dancing girl's skirt.

Swinging his legs off the bed, Minwu rests blood-encrusted hands on his knees for a moment before rising; before glorying in the sensation of muscles stretching without tearing. He glances out the window, lets his eyes rest on the pale and dusty gold of the captive sunset.

He smiles.

It's a private, emaciated thing; long out of use. And for a second, he relishes the swift, simple way it lightens his heart before walking the few steps to his chair and returning to work.

There's much to be done, still. He has promises to keep. Ones he made – or perhaps, were made for him – the second he bound a soul to the Warrior of Light.

There would be no more indulgences. No more time devoted to the study of music, or of flowers, or the lore of all those other worlds. Nor would there be anything in his chambers than a simple double bed, a desk, and every tome he could find in any world about Shinryu.

Everything must be bare and simple. Every moment smuggled beneath the observation of the Lufenian's "Great Will" must be used for a single purpose only.

_Kill the Dragon. _

_Destroy it before it gains sufficient strength in Dissidia to glut on the souls in Etro's Gate. _

_End it. End it all._

Minwu sighs, considers opening an ancient text but then doesn't. For all Cid's scheming – _the length of sight he always claimed_ – the endgame behind his deal with the devil seemed to escape him. _But that's well enough_, Minwu supposes. The Lufenian's obsession with that vile simulacrum of himself keeps him ignorant, and the ignorance is helpful.

With Ellone's aid, he has located a tightrope. If walked correctly, it will perhaps lead all of them from this place. It will perhaps help him return certain of the things that were lost.

Certain things. _Not all. _Certain people. _Again, not all_. And all of it contingent on whether he has strength remaining to pull the brand off Etro's champion, if he can even determine how.

Minwu blows out a quiet breath, and the fingers he was using to flirt with the leather binding of the tome slip to the polished wood of his desk and drum. He is weary of playing puppeteer. But he has yet to find a way to crush the part of him that continues to whisper that there must be another way.

Again closing his eyes, Minwu focuses. He must not allow these thoughts to possess him. Cid isn't here at the moment – he cannot feel that repellent, rusted-tin-tasting presence in his lab – but he's learned the hard way that the Lufenian is nearly always listening, just a second away from _tap, tap, tapping _on the sides of his skull….

The fingers constrict and stop drumming. With considerable force, they grip the side of the desk instead, and Minwu can feel the crusty Ribbons dig into his skin and cut his circulation.

He's bound them very tightly, after all.

"Stop," he chastises himself out loud. "_You must stop._"

Minwu knows she's joined him at his desk partially because the footsteps that glide into his room are not accompanied by an obtrusive answer, and partially because of how familiar her fingers feel as they loosen the knots he's tied. Weightless and graceful, they tease at the filthy snarls of fabric until unbroken flesh rises into the dents in his skin, and blood returns to his hand. Eventually, she unwinds them completely and the bands rustle to the floor.

"Silly man," Aerith says quietly, and the gentle hands rise from his arm to push sticky hair behind his ear. "How many times have I told you you've got to leave some room?"

Minwu chuckles, leans into her touch. "Many, I suppose."

"And you don't listen because...?"

"Of foolishness." He turns his head a bare fraction and leaves a kiss on her fingers. "I do not learn so quickly, I'm afraid."

Tension flutters through Aerith's hand. "Stop that."

"As you wish." Minwu has learned not to deny her rebukes. "How is she? Is she awake?"

"Lightning?" she responds, and he can hear exhaustion and something else twist her voice. "She's up. I…I told her. I'm not sure she's thinking straight yet, though because she hasn't asked any questions. I think she's just a bit shell-shocked."

"Understandably." Reflexively, Minwu starts drumming on his desk again. He lets out a long exhalation. "Understandably so…."

Leaning in over the desk, Aerith flips open the tome on the desk and it falls naturally to the section where Minwu's already broken the spine. "Any luck?" she asks. "We're two crystals down now, but if you start removing the brand, I can go…" – she swallows – "I can _try_ and get them back…Raines is still trapped in the Lifestream.._._Linzei will be distracted…I could…"

"I know." Minwu reaches up and takes the hand Aerith's left on his shoulder. He squeezes it before he points to the text. "But I'm afraid I'll need you here. To be honest, I'm still at a loss. There's nothing in any of her world's analects that gives any clue. Only countless references to Etro's '_pity_'." Exasperated, he stops, taps the paper. "It's insensible gibberish. Surely – "

"_Surely_ – " It's a careless, lazy voice that interrupts him. One he hasn't heard in some time. "Surely you don't expect _sense_ from the gods, do you Minwu? Or has so much time in this crypt rotted your brain?"

"Nero." Minwu inclines his head and turns to see Etro's Ferryman reclined indolently in the wooden chair by his bed. "A pleasure, as always."

Beside him, Aerith makes a face. Whatever magic flows through Nero the Sable – and Minwu has not yet determined whether it is Chaos or something else entirely – it is the equal and the opposite of her. Terra corrupt, was it? "Speak for yourself, love," she says.

"Feisty, aren't we flower girl?" The bandages on Nero's face pull in a thin facsimile of a smile. "Death suits you, I think."

"Peace, Nero." Minwu settles a hand on Aerith's lower back, and gently he works to rub away the tension he finds there. "We weren't expecting you quite yet. Is there something?"

Nero's eyebrow's twitch, amused. "There's always _something,_ isn't there? You've been dancing quite the little dance, or so I hear."

Tensing, Minwu's fingers push dents into Aerith's skin. "I assume you haven't come here to level threats." His voice cools and hardens. "Our respective masters have a bargain. And as I understand it, She keeps your brother in rather precarious conditions."

A soft, cruel chuckle seeps out from under the pitted gag. "I wouldn't dream of telling on you Minwu." A metal wing creaks as he extends it, uses it to lay long, elegant scratches on the side of his face. "I can't imagine anything I care less about that your petit revolutions." He crosses his legs, slouches on the chair's rickety arm. "By all means, slay your dragons and throw off your chains, brave servant. I'm only here to send you tidings from the Goddess."

It's only then that Minwu's eyes find the mirror fragment Nero cradles in his right hand. He's surprised it was so well concealed. But then, if one thing can be said of Etro – the most foolish of all Bhunivelze's children – it is that she chooses her servants well.

His eyes narrow. "What is that?"

"This?" Nero says, tilting the glass towards his ruined face as he rises. After a last, searching look, he shrugs and then tosses the fragment over with the ease of indifference. He either assumes someone will catch it, or he does not care. "The answer to your niggling question, Minwu." He offers a mocking bow. "Remember. Offerings to the Goddess must be clean."

It's Aerith who actually manages to snatch the mirror before it shatters on the floor. The second she catches it though, she takes a sharp, caught-off guard breath. A sound that Minwu hasn't heard for quite some time. "_Nero_," she snaps. "What are we supposed to do with this?"

Pulling himself to his full height, Nero rolls his eyes. "And I'd heard you were supposed to be the clever one." He doesn't look back as he makes his way out the door, wrapped in thick, obfuscating robes of dark. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Minwu waits until the chamber has cleared of darkness before speaking again. And even then, still suspicious, he throws glimmering sparks of Dispel on the ground and a precautionary wall of Silence at the door. It's only after the mana's cleared his fingers that he looks up at her and asks, "What is it, Aerith?"

She waits a moment before answering, and Minwu watches as her fingers play over the filigreed frame of the mirror: if possible, both teasing and reverent. "I don't quite know." She hesitates, kneels beside him and then hands it over. "Here."

As soon as Minwu takes it in his hands, he starts to understand Aerith's confusion. There's something very strange about this fragment of Etro's world. A mirror that shows a thousand possibilities, reflections of an even greater number of times…

He can see right away how he might be able to use it to remove Lightning's brand. The manipulation of probability might be enough in itself. But still, and more compelling, there's something more to it than even that.

Aerith's supernatural green eyes scrawl questions in the amber dark. "So what do _you_ see?"

"I'm not quite certain." Turning the fragment over in his hand, he holds it up to the unsetting sun. "Perhaps nothing. But perhaps..." He pauses and cannot strangle the unfamiliar hope that rises in his chest. "…perhaps another way…"

* * *

><p>Charging through the streets of the Phantom Village, Tifa Lockheart wipes whole regiments of stubborn tears from her eyes. She hates that she's crying. She hates that she's crying <em>again.<em> But the tears don't listen to her. They never have.

Despite all her best efforts, they dribble down her face in greasy smears. She does manage to swallow the sobs though, even if she nearly has to bite through her bottom lip to do so. Pain pulses from the wet and swollen skin all the way up the muscles of her jaw, but it doesn't matter. She likes it, even.

It's normal. _It's easy_. It's proof that she's not as breakable as she thinks – she's terrified – that she just might be.

_It's so childish_, Tifa thinks, almost absently avoiding little caucuses of frozen people. She doesn't understand why she can't just be angry, the way Light would be. Why just the smallest comment from Aerith can make her feel like no matter _what_, she's always going to be wrong. That it's her fault for not understanding everything the way she should, even when nobody ever bothers to explain it to her.

She thought she was doing the right thing. And if what she did really was a mistake, why didn't Aerith _say_ anything…if she knew…

The thought pulls Tifa up short, cuts her run mid-stride, makes her feel worse, if it's even possible. It's hard to blame Aerith for being secretive – _if she even is_ – when she's the one whose got Vaan's ring in her pocket. When she didn't tell Cloud when she met him again all those years ago, all the things he needed to know.

Stationary now, Tifa balls her fists and the tears just fall. And Aerith died to save them_. Aerith died and I lived and, oh god, how could I even think... _

She swallows and it hurts. All Aerith's _ever done_ is save her life. _She doesn't deserve…_

Heaving breath out of burning lungs, Tifa grasps for control but can't find it. Eventually, she tries to wipe the tears off again: harder this time, until she feels the skin on her face pull and stretch.

_Get a grip, Lockheart. Get. A. **Grip**. _She orders herself to stop, but more tears come out anyway. And after a while, too miserable to even stand there, she settles to her knees in the long shadow of some frozen father who's holding his daughter close in his arms.

She's got brown hair, the little girl, like Marlene's. With a glittering, messy smile that'll rot on her face like that, forever. And as Tifa looks up at her, she finds there's nothing she can do to stop herself from just sobbing, stupidly and alone. Not just for her and Aerith, but for…well…she doesn't even know anymore.

_Everything maybe. _

_Yeah – _the sobs come silently and convulsively, like she's hyperventilating, and all of a sudden she's aware that she's still soaked in black blood and red blood and bits of crap that she's got no fucking idea what to call – _maybe that. _

She's so sorry. For Kain and Light and Fran. For Raines, even, no matter what Aerith says. For all these poor frozen people. For _shit, just damn it…_

_I'm sorry._

Sucking in air, Tifa takes her balled fists and smashes them hard against her knees. Over and again, until there's so much more numbness than pain. And again, for some reason, it's this that helps her pull herself together. This that keeps from her from blubbering like some idiot kid, all by herself.

Clawing the skin on her thighs, Tifa does her best to focus. To tell herself that _it's okay, _they're still alive. And that there's no way she can do anything for anyone if she's stuck in the middle of nowhere, crying in the dirt.

The conclusion doesn't make her feel all the way better. _Not even close, really_. But it takes her some of the way. It helps here wrestle the crying to a stop. It helps her get back to her feet.

_If it was a mistake, make up for it Tifa. _Rubbing her eyes, the decision feels right. It's all she can do. She breathes, regular this time. _There isn't any other choice_.

When Tifa starts moving again, she goes slowly, driftingly. Her senses are still sloppy from the crying fit, so she feels a little like she's moving through a dream. A still-life dream, filled with yellow water-color light and ageless flowers that recline from window boxes, and silence. A sturdy, invincible silence that's interrupted only by the thump of rubber footsteps against cobblestone.

_Well, footsteps and…wait…what...crossbow bolts? _

Tifa freezes. _Huh?_ She can't decide if it's real or if she just completely made up that last part because her exhausted mind's a total nervous wreck. She bends her knees, tenses, listens again. It's for sure…something: a click, and lock and a pressurized release and words…

"_Okay._" A sharp, familiar voice. Another click – _loading – _a dull twang _– firing…"_Maybe I would havepreferred…the _damn_…_zombies_."

"Vaan!" Tifa breaks into a dead sprint towards the sound, racing down main streets and alleys as fast as she can. "_Vaan!_"

There's no answer so she follows her instincts and keeps on running. She tracks the sounds until she rounds a nearby corner and sees something that brings her fist to her mouth. Something that she never thought she'd see again, racing up the atmosphere…

The hand that's not at her mouth braces against the alley wall.

"_What_?" It's a whisper. A surprised and breathy whisper. "Wait. _Kain? _Vaan – what are you _doing?_"

Vaan's got new soot on his face that clashes with the old soot, and he's got his crossbow pressed expertly into the crook of his arm. He offers her a quick, knowing smirk.

"Oh. Hey Teefs," he says as if he's asking her to pass the salt. "By the way " – he lets another bolt fly, but it sails wide of its target – "_Definitely_ not Kain. It's…whatever they ran into on the bridge. The thing that killed him."

"What do you mean?" Tifa's still shaking disorientation from her head as she pushes off the alley wall. Putting her arms up to a middle block, she just barely manages to flip away from Vaan to avoid the killing point of a falling spear: the bone-crushing weight of the form behind it.

"_Kain – _what?" She repeats his name again, needing – somehow – to get through. "What's going on? _What - _"

With chilling speed and grace, the figure uncoils from the kneel he's landed in and lunges forward. A single motion, uninterrupted_._ _Exactly like Kain_. "I would think it obvious," he drawls. "Although I'm told you're quite stupid."

Hopping back on her left leg, Tifa feints under the spear before turning in a hard roundhouse to the ribs of, of – _whoever this thing is. _"Well," she snarls, using his momentary lack of balance to land a hard right hook to his jaw. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

Stepping back, the man with Kain's face snorts, wipes blood lazily from his lower lip. "Ah," he mutters, spinning the spear in guard before resetting his stance with languorous impunity. "Stupid _and_ violent." He charges forward again. "How charming."

Tifa hears the clicking reload on Vaan's crossbow well before she sees the bloody tips of the bolts come through not-Kain's shoulder. "Why don't you just shut up already," he says, voice drenched with disgust. "The real Kain never talked this much."

The man lets out a muffled grunt, and though he nearly drops to his knees, his spear stays firmly in hand. Tifa rushes forward with a sweep, trying to take advantage of the pause, but somehow the bastard sees it and - _oh shit – _reacts.

She sees it coming but it's too late. Before Tifa can counter or slide out, the butt end of his spear cracks down on her knee. She hears the bone crack, feels the kneecap shift and slide.

"Ngh." Revolting amounts of pain pull a dry heave from her stomach. She closes her eyes for the briefest of seconds, but when she opens them again, all she sees is a blade coming down at her neck. She's certain she's dead, but then there's _one, two, three_ more crossbow bolts from Vaan, and she's able to recover her senses enough to roll away.

The sound of steel tearing flesh is not something Tifa thinks she'll ever get used to. But his time – _thank goodness – _the spear does rattle to the ground.

"Asshole," Vaan says from somewhere out of sight. "Get off her. _Now._"

"You are all fools." The words grind from the wounded man's jaw as he rounds on his attacker. Blood's pouring from several of the holes in his chest, and Tifa's got no idea how he's still standing, let alone fighting. He pulls a knife from a sheathe at his belt and lunges forward. _Again, that speed. Again that rage._

"She _will_ find you." The words bubble with blood, and Tifa bets that he's got at least a punctured lung, but it barely slows him down. "She's been here thousands of years, awaiting the slag you present at Etro's Throne. You truly think you can escape Her? Her will is complete. It's kinder by far that you die by my hand."

From where Tifa's sprawled on the ground, she can tell there's not enough time for Vaan to reload so he buys time, retreats down the alley. He's too slow, though, and before Tifa can even cry out to warn him, whoever it is in Kain's body has jumped forward, crashing him into a wall.

Tifa can barely follow what happens next, it goes so fast. There's a clatter as Vaan's crossbow is knocked from his hands, a flurried trade in messy, uncoordinated punches, and before she can pull herself to her feet, the terrifying thing wearing Kain's skin has Vaan pinned to his chest and a knife poised at his neck.

Despite the shrieking pain in her knee, Tifa flips forward. The joint basically gives out on her, but she stays upright, and is off at a crazed bolt towards both of them before she sees the knife dig up into Vaan's skin: deadly, menacing, sincere.

"Move and he dies."

"Oh." Tifa freezes. "Oh no."

Maybe it's all the time they've spent traveling together, but even while Tifa's panicking, she knows enough to find Vaan's eyes. He's not struggling, but she can see his nimble hands inch – softly, carefully – along his belt towards his dagger. _Stall, _is all she thinks. Even if Vaan can't break free, there's no way this guy's going to survive too long with those crossbow bolts in his back. _If they wait long enough, he'll be weak_…

Tifa's heartbeat won't slow down, and the throb in her knee is making her sick, but she ignores it because she has to. She meets a pair of insane amethyst eyes and searches them for any trace of Kain – the _real _Kain – that she can reach just for a second. Just one or two is _all_ she needs.

"Kain – " she holds out her hand.

"Are you even more stupid than I thought, whore? _That_ – " he makes a savage gesture with his chin "is moving."

"Okay." The arm drops, limp. "Okay. Kain…Kain what happened to you? _Why_ – The Kain I know would _never_ do this. He's selfless, _brave_ – "

"Brave?" The expression on Kain's striking face twists. "_Brave? _The dog you know is weak beyond measure. He failed at everything he ever tried; lost everything he ever wanted. He mewls for scraps at Cecil Harvey's _feet._" The knife comes up higher, draws a thin red line on Vaan's neck. "I've no intention of letting him live."

"Don't you _ever_ say that about him. He did all of it for us." Even through the reflexive, ice-bright slice of anger, Tifa see Vaan's hand stray closer, _a fraction of an inch at a time_. _But wait…_Tifa's mind stutters, shocked."But wait...you mean he's alive?"

"I suppose he will be." The words are frothy spit in Vaan's right ear. "Until I kill him. Either way, I still need your crystal, boy."

Vaan lifts his neck, daring. If the cut at his neck bothers him, it doesn't show at all. "So why don't you just off me and take it, then."

"I would if I could, rat," he wheezes. "But Harmony's crystal is a curious thing. It requires you surrender it of your own free will. So here – " the voice is cajoling, urbane " – a bargain. Give it to me, I kill you and leave the whore. _Don't_," he laughs a short, brutal laugh. "I leave you alive. I take my time with her."

"Sorry." By now, Vaan's finally got his hand on his dagger. And lifting it faster than Tifa's ever seen him move, he cuts a vicious, yawing slash over top of the hand that restrains him. Bone whispers white against peeling layers of muscle and skin, amidst slit purple ropes of vein. "No dice, jackass."

The knife that was at Vaan's neck a second ago clatters harmlessly to the ground. And whatever it is that's inhabiting Kain's shape finally – _finally _– sinks to the street. Unarmed and bleeding, all he does is breath.

"Now," Vaan grabs his crossbow off the ground and retreats back in front of Tifa. "Who _are_ you? What do you want?"

Doubled over, the man looks up at them with blistering hate. "Everything," he answers in a voice so familiar it sinks through Tifa's stomach like a stone. "Everything I can get."

"Then by all means –" Tifa's head snaps to the source of the words. They barge out of shadow; spill from the mouth of a figure she can only assume has been hiding behind one of the jagged heaps of trash in the alley, just waiting. " – take this."

A hand wielding a rusty mythril knife follows the words. With slick and terrifying precision, it flashes under the kneeling man's chin and neatly slits his throat.

Tifa gasps, shot through with horror. The man falls over and dies, but it doesn't happen the way it does in movies, where people splutter and spit blood and try and say things: confess, maybe. Kain moves professionally, and in one seamless incision he severs both carotid arteries and the jugular vein.

Whatever blood the thing had left in his body has left it before it even hits the ground.

Tifa swallows and averts her eyes, tries not to watch the corpse twitch. And because the blood's not frozen with the rest of the village, it splashes a bit, dark and sticky and wet. It slithers between the cobblestones, alive.

_Kain?_ Tifa almost falls again. If she thought she was losing it before, now she's almost sure. The _real_ Kain? _But why would he kill –?_

"Do you have _any _idea what's happening Teefs?" Vaan's backed up so his arms around her waist and he's supporting her busted knee. "Or who the hell _that _is? I mean, how many pyscho Kains are there out there?"

"I…" she trails off. "I don't know…"

It's only for the quickest of moments afterwards, but for a second, the three of them just stand there, shocked. It's not that Tifa hasn't seen Kain kill before. She has – _plenty of times_ – and he does it with such exacting skill that more than once, when they were travelling together, she'd had to stop and reset: tell herself that he was doing this to help and there wasn't something else behind those beads he used to look at people instead of his eyes.

_Traitor. Killer_. He called himself those things when she never did. She always figured it was code for _"stay away"._ And yet, as he stands there, looking over the body with naked contempt, she can't help but think that maybe, _maybe he was right_?

Looking down at Vaan, Tifa just blinks. She blinks and just doesn't understand anything anymore. Least of all who it is she sees when she looks at the man with the blood-soaked left hand.

Kain stands over the body for a little while longer, musters enough strength to kick it heartily before collapsing to the earth. Tifa braces herself for the grotesque noise of a live body hitting the dead, but before it happens, something starts to glimmer in the corpse. It _dissolves_, begins to come part in little magic orbs that look like Yuna's Sending light. They flock up to the strange, frozen clouds in lazy, golden figure eights.

It would be almost pretty, Tifa thinks. If she could forget the where they came from – she swallows, still uncertain – _if she could just be __**sure…**__._

"Tifa." Almost without her noticing, Kain's come to a knee. He inclines his head, tin-man stiff, but courtly as always. "My apologies…for the mess."

Tifa has to squeeze her lids shut to get the light out of her eyes. But when she opens them again, amidst the spots that float in her eyes, there he is. _Oh God. There he is. _

His face is gaunt and thin with dehydration. And it's filthy too, just destroyed with dirt and bloodstains and leperous flakes of crystal. But it's the expression that catches her attention. Striking and hawkish as ever, there's nevertheless warmth in his eyes, and his lips are pulled in a smirk that doesn't bear any trace of hate.

"Do you intend to just stare?" There are notes of mirth in his voice that Tifa thinks she'd recognize anywhere: that sharp, unfakeable humor of his that always stuck itself right under Light's skin... "I think I might appreciate…another potion…if you've one to spare."

"Oh, _Kain_."His name bursts out of her mouth and the taut uncertainty of the moment shatters into a million tiny pieces. "It really _is_ you. We thought you were – "

"Dead?" A smile pulls the corner of Kain's mouth, crinkles the skin around his eyes. "No. Not at this particular moment. Perhaps later."

Despite her busted knee, there's no accounting for the speed at which Tifa's legs carry her to his side, the force that she uses to throws her arms around him. For his part, Kain manages only a small chuckle before putting his hand – hard and tentative,_ but gentle still, and kind_ – to the back of her head.

"Oh God. We thought – " she whispers, pulling him tight, half unwilling to believe that he's really here, really still alive. Closing her eyes against more stupid, traitor tears, she clutches his back and y ridges of dirt wedge beneath her nails. "We thought we'd lost you."

"Don't count yourself wrong," he mutters, "quite yet."

Breaking free of his grasp, Tifa pulls back, presses her hand to the sticky flesh at his brow. The skin is terrifyingly cold, and descending the whole length of his right arm, he's tied bands of fabric in rotting tourniquets. Suddenly assessing, her eyes follow them down from his shoulder to his wrist and see that the hand that's visible beneath the cuff of his doublet is as black as the material itself, and rigid with rigor mortis.

Tifa's hand goes to her mouth. She doesn't want it to be true, but a quick glance to the little black worms of magic slithering over the crusty wounds on his chest say that it is. _Death magic_. _Doom_, she corrects, remembering everything Aerith taught her in a rush.

_Can't be Cured. Kills you faster, the more you move. Oh, oh no. _

"We've got to get him back to Aerith or Yuna." Sliding herself in the crook of his armpit Tifa lifts. Kain's six feet and change of solid muscle, and her knee is absolutely killing her, but it's adrenaline doing most of the work. Scrambling in her pocket for a potion, she pulls the cork with her teeth, takes a quick swig she hopes – _please, please, please – _is enough to get them back."Vaan, hurry."

Holstering his crossbow, Vaan sprints over and takes the other half of the dragoon's weight with ease. "So Kain," he starts. "Just so I know…you got some kind of insane _twin_ you didn't tell us about?"

Kain looks up, seeming vaguely amused. Deep violet eyes that Tifa's never seen so – she doesn't know what word to use, _"unbound", maybe –_ burrow into their sockets. "No."

"Really? But then – I don't get – " He pauses, raises a brow. "_Really_?"

"Yes."

It's a bit odd that Tifa doesn't quite remember when exactly it was she learned to read Vaan so well, but she watches as he shakes his head sharply and gives up on trying to make any kind of sense of anything at all.

"You know what, Kain," he observes, halfway between wry and confused out of his mind. "You've got some serious issues."

A short, pained laugh. "Fair enough, Vaan," Kain mumbles, half delirious. "Fair enough."

* * *

><p>Lightning Farron doesn't think that she can really call what she's feeling a headache. Sure, it's pain. And, yes, it's clustered like some kind of puffy sponge of pure fucking agony somewhere behind her eyes. But if she had to describe it, "<em>headache"<em> probably wouldn't be the word she'd go with.

_Nailbat to the skull?_ She toys with the analogy as she makes her way up the overlook above the Phantom Village Inn. _Little mice, chewing on my optic nerves?_ She rolls her head, thinks: _"closer"_, but still, not quite right. That doesn't really capture the nausea, or the dizziness, or the fact that the perfectly solid-looking ground beneath her feet feels like some combination of mud and cotton candy.

Pausing to pinch the bridge of her nose, Lightning inhales, closes her eyes. _Hurts_ _like hell._She'll go with that, she thinks. Leave the metaphors to Laguna. He's better at them, anyway.

She's got other things on her mind right now.

"_Give us time Lightning, but yes, we think we can._" Aerith's promise is more than she could ever let herself believe. _"We think we can._"

It's stupid to hope for it. She knows that. This thing is a curse from sadistic gods and getting it off her chest would defy everything she's ever known about the world. _But still_. She guesses that the whole _point_ of hope is that it's stupid. That it's there when it shouldn't be. That it helps you go on, when the rational thing to do would be to lay down arms, concede that the battle's lost.

It's one of those feelings that's halfway between insanity and good tactics, she guesses. Halfway between the one thing she can't let herself feel and exactly what she needs to get the others out of this, even if she can't go with them.

Even if the best she's got to hope for is that Laguna will blow her head clear off before she loses every last part of who she is.

Unthinkingly, Lightning's hand comes to her breast and she presses down on her brand. It's dormant, yeah, but still _there_. And when she applies circular pressure she can feel heat and slithering black magic radiate out through her nerves. It's thick and hard, too. The flesh as crusty and grey and scab-like as any monster's.

_But they bound it._ The argument's seductive, and it uncoils in her wind like whispering smoke. It chatters about a home, a future, maybe even a life. _Maybe…maybe it's possible. _

Lightning clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. _Whatever. _She'll see what they have in mind. Take it one step at a time. _"Face forward," _Kain had said. It made sense then and it makes sense now. It helps her content herself with the small stuff: with checking on Yuna and Laguna, with finally taking a nice hot bath. Maybe having a night – _or endless sunset, or any stray patch of time, actually – _that doesn't involve getting shot at.

As she crests the hill, the figures of her friends emerge from the bottom up. First the rock they're sitting on. Then the curve of Yuna's hip. Laguna's bare, burnt arm draped over her shoulder. He's pointing at something off in the distance. Lightning can't tell what it is, or if he's really just making a wide gesture some imaginary destination, but either way, Yuna giggles, musical and soft.

Lightning smiles. _It's good to hear_.

"Hey, you." Laguna's the first to notice she's come up behind them. Turning, he flashes her an easy grin. "Feeling better?"

"You _look_ a little better," Yuna adds brightly. She turns with him, but her cheek stays hovering in the general vicinity of his shoulder. There's muck on her face, but the blue-green eyes are calm, like she hasn't just been riding shotgun through hell.

Dizzy and a bit caught off guard by their casual closeness, Lightning waits a bit before answering. There's something about the strange, sepia light and the way it glints off Laguna's tags and Yuna's clothes that reminds her of an old war photograph. _Of loved ones – parents maybe – welcoming you home. _

Lightning blinks, pulls herself out of it. "Better than dead." She stops, rubs her temple. "I think."

"Well now. " Laguna raises a hand in a lanky faux-salute. "That's gotta count for something."

"Who said I was complaining?" A quick smile flits over Lightning's lips before she rolls her weight over her right hip and folds her arms. "I'll take it. Beats getting impaled."

"_Light,_" Yuna begin. "You shouldn't joke abou– Oh." She rises, cuts herself off, makes a small, strangled noise in the back of her throat.

Both Laguna and Lightning notice the expression on Yuna's face drop along with the end of her sentence. For a second, it looks like Laguna's going to finish it for her but then he squints off in the same direction she's staring at, scrambles to his feet, and then breaks off into a run without another word.

"What?" Lightning pivots, not quite understanding what's happening until her eyes find a strange, group-of-people-looking silhouette coming up the ridge. Rushing forward a few paces behind Laguna, she can tell it's Vaan and Tifa_, _but they're carrying something. _Someone_ –

It's as if she's been lassoed around the waist and then yanked back, hard. She freezes. Her right hand comes up, blocking and holding Yuna behind her. Tensing through the wild dread that's spiking her nerves, she wishes to high hell she'd brought her sword.

"Don't move," she orders. "I mean it."

"Kain!" Yuna cries out, dropping the _'Sir'_ and doing her best to fight around Lightning's grip. "Oh – look at your arm. Light, I've got to – "

"I said stay back." Lightning is stunned by the deep coldness in her own voice. "We've got no idea who this bastard is."

"_Light._" Tifa this time, pleading. "It's Kain, I promise it is. We fought the other… I mean, there were two of him, and we – "

Lightning doesn't bother to respond to Tifa directly. "_You._" She looks right at the man sagging between her and Vaan and crushes the frantic twinges of concern and fear and crazed, idiotic relief racing up from her stomach. She cannot –_ absolutely fucking __**will**__ not_ – let herself believe this. Not without proof. She raises her chin. "What's my name?"

"Lightning." He barely raises his head to look up at her from between limp, grime-soaked strings of hair. "Piqued are we? I trust you're not unwell."

The sound of that voice is like a hard punch to the gut. But it's still not enough.

"Shut up." Lightning still has her arm in front of Yuna. Her fingers twitch for an absent blade. "I asked you a question. You don't come one step closer without answering it. What's my name?"

"Betray our little secret so carelessly, Claire?" The answer is an irritated question, contemptuously said. Sweat's baked into his sneering upper lip. His face is an absolute wreck, she's just noticing, and the jaundice in his skin clashes with the clear, stained-glass irises. "How indiscreet."

Lightning isn't sure if it's the immediate of tension in her muscles that convinces Yuna that this is the real man, or if – _likely, actually – _the only one who ever really needed proof was her. Either way, she feels a body muscle past her, and she's suddenly alone. Her outstretched arm doesn't do anything. It holds court between nothing and nothing else.

Eventually, she lets it come to rest at her side, but she still doesn't know what to do. "…_Kain_?"

"Somewhat," he replies. His lips are dry and desiccated, and they pull, a little vicious, a little amused, to one side.

She says nothing. Her mouth doesn't work.

He chuckles weakly. "Suddenly speechless, are we?"

Lightning has exactly zero response. All things being equal, she decides to just stand there. Mostly, she devotes her energy to clenching and unclenching her fists. To swallowing the curses and the long strings of recriminating nonsense words she wants to throw at him, all at once.

It takes her a while to notice he's still looking at her. He doesn't say anything else, though. She knows him well enough to know he doesn't see a need.

Some words try to bully their way past her lips, but they don't get far. Maybe it's because she doesn't want to say them, but it could be because her head's spinning and she can't force any kind of order on them anyway and _what the __**hell**__, Kain?_

Whatever it was, it's too late. Because by the time she's even got an inkling of it, Laguna's already taken Tifa's place under Kain's right shoulder and walked him past her towards the Inn.

The steps are slow and lurching, but he's moving under his own power. A part of her wants to follow after them, but the bolt of relief Lightning feels keeps her nailed her in place.

It's only after she knows that they're all gone that she lets herself breathe. There's no breeze – _there can't be one_ – but for some reason she feels suddenly cold. Or she could be flushed. That's a possibility too. She doesn't really know. She's sure she doesn't care.

"Shit, Kain." She says it and it sounds strange to her so she repeats: "_Shit._"

_No. Not right. _That wasn't what she wanted to say. Or how. Closing her eyes, she tries again.

"Thank you," is all she manages. She guesses it's supposed to go out to some kind of god, but she doesn't believe in any, so the stillness will have to do. _Anyway:_ "Thank you."

It's a little better, a little closer. But still, her voice stays precarious, or her thoughts, or maybe just the known world.

* * *

><p>AN (2): For those of you unfamiliar, Nero the Sable is a principal antagonist in Dirge of Cerberus. He's an evil creature made mostly of chaos/darkness. Look him up. He's deliciously creepy and slashy and awesome.

**NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER: **At the Throne of Fell Lindzei, plans for a final battle brew. Meanwhile, in the Phantom Village, Minwu comes face to face with his sins, as well as Cid of the Lufaine.


	12. CIX1:To Cross the Sleepless Night

Door of Souls, Chapter IX-1: To Cross A Sleepless Night 

**Beta**: Distant Glory. Read her _"Ways and Songs and Flowers" _immediately. I don't ship Yeul/Caius but this tempts me.  
><strong>Thanks:<strong> More general thanks to readers, vocal and silent. I reiterate you owe me nothing for stupidly-long-angsty-fic, but your continued attention makes me feel like I'm doing something right.  
><strong>Inkie!: <strong>I always love hearing from you. To answer your specific question: Nero the Sable was selected because of his connections to darkness and chaos, which will become evident later.

**Chapter Note:** Split it two for digestibility. Slight thematic differences between.

* * *

><p>"<em>Dreams are shores where the ocean of spirit meets the land of matter. Dreams are beaches where the yet-to-be, the once-were, the will-never-be may walk awhile with the still are<em>."

― David Mitchell, _number9dream_

* * *

><p>High in the highest tower of the Ruins, in a forgotten room of a narrow spire, sits the Throne of Fell Lindzei.<p>

Alone amongst garlands of calcified moss and the rubble of discarded centuries, it rises from splinters of Eden's stained glass. It governs a jurisdiction of silence.

It has a high back. It has a low seat. It is made of intricately wrought crystal in the shape of beautiful men and beautiful women, all entwined. _If one were to sit in it_ – notes the little mechanical owl perched in the open mouth of a little girl – _one's body would rest in the arms of perfectly-shaped humans_. Palm would unfurl in perfect palm; head would recline against perfect cheek, or find itself nestled in the hollow of a long, perfect neck.

Knifing in from keyhole windows, blades of white Rift-light dissect the chamber; impale the dust motes that drift between ceiling and floor. Transcendental, they alight upon the Throne, and when they do every detail is raised to luminous glory. Each curling lip is visible; each fingernail; all the teeth, and all the eyes.

They sparkle, these fragments. They shine_._

From afar, one could not be blamed for believing that craftsmen wasted lifetimes on such a chair. But come closer, and the materials of its fashioning become rather obvious, indeed.

Lindzei likes to keep those l'Cie who fulfill Her covenant close to her. The faithful are rewarded with proximity to Her greatness. She allows them to cradle her, when she deigns to descend to a form that mortals can detect.

Agitated, the creature that was once Barthandelus hops back and forth on his tin-spindle legs, and wonders for the thousandth time why the faces of these mortals still show such horror. Why some of their mouths still corkscrew in a scream.

_They should be honored_. Squealing, he hops and then pecks at a wide-open eye. _She graces them beyond the worth of mortal men._

_She graces them beyond me, too_. Crestfallen, he has no choice but to add the thought. She would not have left him here, alone – denied even the meanest illusion of Her presence – for this long if she did not.

Sadness chokes him. It doesn't matter. He understands. What transpires now is his fault. It was his guidance under which Etro's champion grew strong; his failure to understand the signs that led her to Orphan's Cradle and the doorstep of the end. He deserves the punishment that She has meted out for him.

He deserves to wither here, trapped in this form. Stripped of strength, but not of immortality, he will sit and watch in exile and decay. He will live endlessly in wreckage, along with the rest of the visible world, when the time comes.

_When the moment of Bhunivelze dawns. When Valhalla comes to us all. _

If rusty steel could weep, Barthandelus would. He blinks his corroded eyes, but they remain dry. He does not know how he could have gotten it all so terribly wrong. How thousands of years of devotion could have led him – led all his broken, brethren Fal'Cie – to a place so far from Her will.

"_Luminous lamented, for creation spiraled unto Doom." _Barthandelus will remember the prayer until there is nothing left in his mind but crazed bird logic: impulses that drive only to eat, only to shit. "_Stout fashioned earth, that future might take root / Sage turned inward, seeking truth profound / Fool desired naught, and soon was made one with it…"_

How they all misunderstood. How they all failed to see that the last thing that She wanted was to set this into motion. The last thing She wanted was to speed the path of Her Sister's champion to Valhalla.

When She brought him here, She addressed him only once.

"_**You have wrought disaster, fool child**__. __**I bid you, see.**__" _

The tin heart in Barthandelus' ribcage beats wildly at the memory._ Oh_: what he would not kill to hear Her voice again. What he would not –

It is the wild crash of a body crashing into broken stained glass that rips his attention from his own sorrow. Terrified, he launches himself into the air, wings flapping at deranged intervals. For time beyond measure, there has been no sound in this place. Its sudden presence screams blasphemy, and Barthandelus feels pure, avian panic rise in his gullet.

He lacks the strength to fly very high or very far, and cannot therefore hide from what he sees crash at the foot of the Throne: a flawless figure, drenched in wet green magic. A man – _or something better_ – that Barthandelus himself once tortured for sport.

Corroded vocal chords strain for words his beak can't form. _Cid Raines._

There is no adjective sufficient to describe the madness with which he flaps his wings. This is the man who Fell Lindzei has made prince of Her Undying, and Barthandelus is afraid.

He makes an attempt to screech, to protect his domain, but all that comes out it is a paralyzed caw.

Indifferent to the sound, Cid Raines rises slowly. He is disoriented, Barthandelus sees. He looks left and right. He stares a while at his hands. The pupils that prick ice-colored eyes dilate and then contract, unsure. Very little that is human remains in Cid Raines, but for a moment, it does not seem so. For the merest of seconds, it seems that he is as scared and fragile as he was the day Barthandelus pressed the mark of a l'Cie to his butter-soft flesh.

In a time when he was master, and this creature a slave. Before the breaking of the Day of Ragnarok tore fate itself apart.

If there really is fear in Cid Raines' bearing it does not last. Barthandelus' crazed flightpath blurs his vision, but still, he sees the grace with which Her Undying collects himself. Wings folded, he walks towards Her throne as if it were his birthright, and as he does, varicolored fragments of a fallen world shimmer, resplendent, in the ornaments of elaborate platinum greaves.

It is difficult for Barthandelus to concede that here before him is the first among Her servants. That a bare human, the refuse born from Her sister's skin, could be raised to such unutterable heights. And that it is _this_ human, of all creatures, he who so yearned to be free.

Barthandelus remembers well that when Raines was branded, he crumpled and wept like a child.

But then again, he glories in the fact that at least he was able to give Her this creature. In this, at least,, he was able to serve. The realization puffs his breast.

It is not until Raines has nearly completed the ultimate sin that Barthandelus notices it._ He does not kneel_. _He...__**he**__ – _

He sits in it. The vermin sits on Her Throne.

The pose Raines effects is rigid and deliberative. He crosses his legs. Rests his elbows on his knees and his chin to the tips of his fingers. Behind him, magnificent wings unfurl. They cast ghostly shadows over Eden's glittering, broken bones.

Crazed, Barthandelus swoops. He is the most pathetic of beings now, but he will not suffer this insult. He will not permit any creature to defile Her thus. He loves Her. He _worships_ Her. And if this upstart has become arrogant by Her regard, Barthandelus will peck his eyes from his head.

_Peck. Peck. Peck. _Corroded yellow eyes widen. _Yes. _

The screech that rips Barthandelus' throat is keening and resonant and it chases itself around the arcade. His claws, though oxidized, unsheathe, and he hurtles himself at his former slave with all the fury he can muster from hollow, iron bones. He is so intent and sure of his velocity that when Raines unsnaps from his posture to grab him from the air by the throat, he is genuinely surprised.

"Rawk," Barthandelus manages to squawk. He kicks little tin talons impotently, still incoherent with fury. And even after Raines has clenched his fist with Her strength, has crushed his larynx, fractured fragile ribs and feathers, he keeps kicking. _Going, must keep going_ – _die, __**insolent, **__peck, peck__– _

"_Primarch_." Fantastic hate gleams in Raines' frozen eyes. "It's been some time, has it not?"

Barthandelus strives to scratch and peck the perfect hand. Strives mightily, but Cid's grip tightens, breaks the circuitry in his spine. The owlish head pulls wrongly to one side, and his talons cease their kicking.

Beyond rage, beyond stone, the face that looks down on Barthandelus is implacable. "How I once longed to have you at my mercy." Now that he has snapped his neck, Raines can afford to be philosophical. "To break you as I was broken. To take from you whatever it is you cherish, only for the joy of taking it." He stops, considers his next words carefully. "I dreamed of it, this moment."

Limp, Barthandelus can say nothing and do nothing. By gnawing bites, brainless panic eats his rage. _Peck, peck…_

Almost idle now, Raines continues, rolling the broken neck back and forth between forefinger and thumb. He ensures nothing remains before he opens his hand, carefully balancing in his palm the pulpy mess of circuitry and torn capillaries the owl-form has become_. _

"Barthandelus of the Fal'Cie – " Raines inclines his head " – a false god, far fallen. Perhaps I pity you now."

Tilting his palm, Raines allows Barthandelus' body to slide into the stained-glass dust. Distastefully, he eyes the smear of oil and blood in his hand before looking down.

Midnight locks obscure the naked fury in his face. To Barthandelus' eyes, Raines has the look of divine judgment.

"Their hand is forced. Hers and that of Hallowed Pulse." Again, Raines steeples his hand beneath his chin. "As we speak, They confer. They decide on a course of action, now that you served Fool Etro's champion to Her on a plate."

Pain and fear and shards of sharp stained glass cloud Barthandelus' vision. Everything Raines says is true, and his rusting soul cannot bear it. He should have killed her when he could have. It's his fault that the balance breaks before Lindzei can find the truth.

He wants to move but he can't. He wants, wants, _**can't**__…Peck, peck – _

Raines' eyes hold the cold light of dying stars. "In the meantime, she has bid me find you. She has bid me find all Her servants, here and in the Void Beyond."

At the words, Barthandelus' clockwork heart skips a beat.

"Do not think you have earned reprieve." Raines is unmoving, but the long shadows of his massive wings stretch across the chamber floor. When he finally deigns to beat them, a rush of air pushes ancient dust into whirling skirts of grit and shattered glass. "But Etro's stupidity has foreclosed other alternatives, and you are required."

Pausing, Raines rises, and the twisted faces of Lindzei's Throne bear silent, screaming witness. He speaks, and Barthandelus thinks he hears Her voice.

"Know you this, fal'Cie. Hereby all covenants are broken. We ride on the Last Floor."

Barthandelus cannot move, so in truth he cannot freeze. This is a thing that cannot be. She and Hallowed Pulse have been sentries to the Door of Souls; guards against Shinryu and the other demons of the Rift. It had been the great folly of all fal'Cie, to believe They couldn't find it. It was the reason They'd abandoned their children, abandoned _him_ to his great mistake.

There is no sense in this. Barthandelus tries to squawk his protest but his beak does not obey.

"Understand me." There is no pity in the way Raines looks at him. A flicker of a sneer pulls his lips, and in all the time that Barthandelus has known this man, it is the first time he has ever shown cruelty. "You will not be as you were. And this time – " he raises his hand, poises his thumb against his third finger " – you belong to me."

Barthandelus does not know exactly what is happening. He knows only that there is immobility and the rabid panic of stupid things; only that the _snap_ that burrows in his ears is unadulterated pain. He has never known its equal. But even as it tears through him, his soul overflows with slobbering hope.

He wants to scream in agony or joy. He vomits a tongue instead. And it is so, so beautiful.

"Masters and slaves, Dysley." Raines' voice drifts in over the sound of flapping flesh, reborn. "We each take our turns as masters and slaves."

He does not understand, but it cannot matter. For this is the pain of miracles, the pain of reformation.

_Yes, yes, yes. _

_Yes-yes-__**yes.**_

* * *

><p>Lying wide awake in her bed, Tifa Lockheart stares at the ceiling and refuses to count sheep.<p>

She honestly doesn't care what Barret says. _It doesn't work_. Plus, she always loses count anyway, and then has to start over at the beginning, which is just frustrating. And frustration's kind of like the anti-sleep. It winds a person up – _makes you edgy _– but just enough for tossing and turning, usually. Just enough so all that gets accomplished is messy sheets and agitated pillow-pushing.

Of course, it's not really the counting-or-not-counting sheep issue that's keeping her up. She knows that. But it's easier to lash out at something simple. Like bad advice or that strung-out orange-all-the-time light. No, what's keeping her up is what always keeps her up these days. _Memories. _Old ones and new ones that play bumper cars with each other. They crash and collide, and she's not sure anymore if any of it makes sense.

Twisting to her side, Tifa hugs her pillow to her chest and doesn't know. Really, she just doesn't. When she first got her memories back she'd been so _sure_, but now –

Tifa inhales the stupidly normal scent of freshly washed linen. _Was I…Was I remembering it right?_

Maybe it's just the normal imperfection of memory, or it could be the weirdness of the Phantom Village, or everything that's happened to them – but the story she's been telling herself about her own life seems off now. Unreliable.

A smile. A flirty toss of a braid. _"Poor Cloud, having to stand here and listen to both of us call him nothing."_

Was Aerith ever that nice? That open? That _young_?

There's hot breath on her ear. A muscled groin descends between parted thighs. _"Words aren't the only thing that tell people what you're thinking."_

Was Cloud really looking at her? Then or ever? In the Lifestream could it…could it really have been _her_ voice heard?

She doesn't think so. Not anymore. He was always looking for Aerith. He was always looking for _Sephiroth._ And Tifa thinks she's finally beginning to understand that maybe – _maybe I was just __**there.**_

Swallowing, Tifa blinks. She always wanted to think – and maybe it's the sheer childishness of it that twists in her stomach – to think things were _good, _that trust was _good. Was that really so stupid?_ She doesn't want to believe it, but then she blinks again, hears _splinter, pop, scream_; feels Lightning's sticky blood on her clean knees, and the word _yes_ floats over it all.

The softness of the pillow seems strange on her cheek. It's been three days. Three days since the burning ship. Two since Kain slit his own throat. And _now_ that she's finally settled down for some rest, she just can't do it. The silhouettes of things in her room taunt her with how ordinary they are. Dressers trunks and new clothes, neatly folded. It's too much. It doesn't make sense.

It's Raines Tifa's mind keeps circling back to. It passes over Cloud and Marlene and _Kain, Light_, _Aerith_ but it's Raines that bothers her the most.

_Why did I believe you?_

She blinks. She doesn't know.

There's a terrified part of her that wants to think it's magic – that song that's been playing in her mind the second she touched that wall in the Ruins. Every time he's around, she hears it. But then, she can't separate it from how it all _felt_. The electric cold in his touch and his blade and his deadly, beautiful face. _A winter storm_, she thinks she could describe it that way, but it doesn't seem right_._ More like a little kid's dream of being lost in the snow.

And when he looks at her, she can't help but think he _sees _–

Revolted, Tifa bolts upright in bed and ignores the stabbing pain in her – _oh, shit, forgot – _still busted-up right knee. There's no way – _no way_ – she's so crazy she's thinking like that right now. Aerith may have changed, but she's _right_. Cid Raines a monster. Anything else she sees in him, anything else she sees in those cold sad eyesis wrong.

And she's tired. She's so tired of seeing things that aren't there.

"No," she whispers and tries her very best to mean it. "I was _wrong_. I – "

"Teefs?" It's Vaan's sharp, suspicious voice that cuts her off. "Who – who are you talking to?"

Tifa starts. The doorway's right in her peripheral vision, but she hadn't noticed him standing there. Flustered, she looks down and up. She's about to snap something about not knocking before she realizes that she's sitting in a tangled mess of sheets, wearing nothing but –

_Crap. _Panties. And – _crap, crap, crap – _a very, very small tee.

So, _um yeah,_ basically just panties.

"_Vaan_," she almost shouts, grabbing a bunch of sheets and pulling them up in front of her. "What? It's the middle of the night. What are you doing up?" There's blush crawling down her face. "And _jeez – _I mean – I'm – you could have at least _knocked._"

"I did knock," Vaan replies easily, sauntering in like he's completely not bothered by the fact she's glaring at him. " You didn't answer." As he leans back against the wall, he smirks. "Relax. I've seen naked girls before, Teefs. It's nothing that special."

Pulling the fabric tightly across her chest, Tifa can't quite figure out how she should take that. "Hey, there." She narrows her eyes at him before grabbing the pillow at her side and launching it at him "Be nice."

Vaan dodges the assault with an easy twist of a wiry frame. "Gimme a break." The smirk swells into an uneven grin. "I'm always nice."

"I don't know about that." Tifa lets out a quick, disbelieving laugh before noticing for the first time that he's still armed to the teeth. "I don't know a lot of nice guys wandering around at two in the morning with crossbows and long-knives."

Vaan shrugs. "That's just being prepared_._" Thumbing the hilt of his dagger, he adds, "Not all of us can beat people up bare-handed, and well, without any clothes and stuff. Besides – " he kicks the pillow that's landed in a deflated feather lump at his feet, " – this place makes my skin crawl."

"Yeah. Me too." Tifa inclines her head. "Can't sleep either, huh?"

"Nope," he replies. "I was on my way to go check on Kain, but I thought I'd swing by here first. See if you were awake."

At the sound of Kain's name, Tifa tenses a bit. Aerith had to Stop the Doom to save his life, but he, _well – _"He doing any better?"

Vaan looks up through the window. "Dunno. Don't think so. Last time I spoke to Yuna, she said his arm's not black anymore, so I guess that's something. Still Stopped though."

"That's just awful." Tifa turns her head deliberately, hides her face behind her hair. It's hard enough to believe they just got Kain back. Thinking about what he looked like when Aerith cast that spell – the flat, glassy nothing in his open eyes – makes her stomach lurch."I feel so bad just _sitting_ here. I mean, isn't there – "

"Don't worry so much, Teefs," Vaan interrupts, maybe a little too quickly. "He's got like, one hundred percent of all the white mages in Dissidia taking care of him, and it's not like the rest of us can do magick here anyway. He'll be okay." He pauses for a second, like he's taking the time to make sure he means what he said. "I really came to talk to you about something else."

"Um, okay." Tifa turns back to him, suddenly concerned. "What is it?"

In the amber light, Vaan's grey eyes are a strange, nameless color. "Just – well – " he starts and then stops himself, fidgets.

"Well? Out with it." Tifa prods. When that results in just more jumpy-feeling quiet, she smiles, tries a joke. "You've gotta let a girl get _some_ beauty sleep, you know."

"…I guess," he says, but he doesn't sound uncomfortable. More like he's just been thinking about what he wanted to say. "I just wanted to know – are _you_ okay, Teefs?" he asks, finally pulling his eyes from the window. "I mean, I know you were crying the other day and everyone's so concerned about Kain and Light and Minwu, I just – "

"Just what?"

He shrugs. "I get that Aerith's pissed about you giving up your crystal. And I just wanted to say you shouldn't care so much what she thinks."

Sighing, Tifa squeezes her eyes shut. She was kind of afraid it would be this again. "Vaan." She takes a soft, deep breath. "I know you don't like her. But – "

"Yeah, no _kidding _I don't like her," Vaan's in such a rush to agree with her the words sprint out of his mouth. "I think she's lying to us. But that's not my point."

"Okay." Tifa says the word slowly. "Then what is it?"

"Look, all I came here to say is that either way, you shouldn't feel bad." Uncharacteristically, he finds a spot on the ground to stare at. "I've got your back. Whatever Aerith thinks of you."

Tifa's confused. _Well, why wouldn't…_"Well – " She straightens turns all the way to face him. "I know that Vaan, why would you even – ?"

"Because." Looking up, Vaan crosses his arms a little tighter. Tifa can see the muscles in his shoulders and forearms bunch. "Everybody else seems to be able to remember the people they were fighting for, back in their own lives – their families and everything – but I _don't_. I mean, I remember Balthier and Fran and Pen, but everything else is a total blank…"

He trails off, and Tifa thinks that with his and arms crossed like that, he looks like a length of ship's rope, pulled tight. Sharp and thin and all angles and dull-glinting steel, she's suddenly struck by how adult he looks, how much he's changed.

But then, Tifa guesses they all have.

"Don't worry, Vaan." Tifa knows it won't make him feel any better, but she tries to comfort him anyway. It's all she can do. "It'll come back to you. You just have to give it time."

"Maybe. Maybenot." Vaan tilts his head, considers. "I'm not even sure it matters anymore. Memories are usually half made-up anyway. I just wish I – I mean, you _remind _me of – whatever."

Exhaling through obvious frustration, Vaan takes a quick pause before starting again. "Teefs, I just came to tell you you've been like a sister to me._ You're _what I care about. I trust _you_. So I don't give a damn about what Aerith thinks. I'm not mad at you. I've got your back." Stopping, the next words he says are quiet and serious. "You and me, we're in this together, okay?"

"Vaan – " What Tifa _wants _to say is: "you bet." More than anything, she wants to say that she _does_ remember her homeworld, and that there isn't anyone there that she'd rather be stuck in this with, including Aerith, and everyone else could sod off. She wants to answer without any hesitation at all, but she can't, because she knows that the crystal ring that's sitting in her skirt pocket would make it a lie.

A slice of guilt traps most of her words in her throat.

"I – "

_He deserves to know, doesn't he?_

"I – "

_But – Aerith and Minwu – shouldn't they get a chance to explain?_ _And I gave away my crystal – _

Biting her lower lip, she's about to tell him, she really is._ But..._ "I know –_ I_ – of course we are," she finally says, settling on the only truth she can tell right now. She smiles as big as she can, hoping it's enough to cover up the hesitation. "Of course."

There's a smile on Vaan's face as his expression relaxes and he pushes himself off the wall, heads out towards the infirmary. "Good," he says. "That's all I wanted to say." On his way out, he bends, swipes up the pillow and tosses it back to her. "Don't forget this. For your beauty sleep, and everything."

"_Goof_," she mutters, catching and hugging the dented pillow to her chest. "Try not to stay up too late."

"Yeah, yeah." Vaan offers an easy wave as he walks out the door. "Whatever you say, Teefs. Not all of us need sleep to be good-looking."

The tip of Tifa's tongue searches for a buoyant response, but by the time she comes up with one, Vaan's sharp footsteps are already echoes. _It doesn't matter_. She's pretty sure it would have sounded fake, anyway.

_Remembering it right…_Tifa curls herself up tighter. Maybe that wasn't the problem with her old memories, her old life. Maybe the problem was she wasn't seeing it clearly, when it happened. Maybe she just didn't want to.

Setting her chin on her pillow, it dawns on Tifa she's going to have to make a choice. She just wishes she knew what it was.

"Aerith." She buries her lips in the fabric. "I think…I think I got everything all wrong."

Stuck in an endless moment, the night has nothing to say in reply. And so, alone with the silence, Tifa Lockhart only stares.

* * *

><p>Standing in front of the tree that guards the entrance to the laboratory of Cid of the Lufaine, Minwu shakes his head and thinks a while on contradiction.<p>

Neither gnarled nor twisted, it's quite a graceful tree. _Silver birch_, he knows. Parchment paper bark the color of new snow. Adorned with a curtain of waxy leaves, it reminds Minwu of a wood nymph at her wedding. Very stately. Very slender. Very alive.

Freed from the curse of the Phantom Village, the gentle night breeze of the Fracturing Forest flows through it, and the sound of rustling branches is much like play.

The smell of moss opens up Minwu's senses, and he almost smiles.

He doesn't like to admit it, but Minwu likes the Fracturing Forest. If it didn't remind him so much of wrong decisions and spoiled intentions, he thinks he (_and Aerith, should she like_) might spend more time here. Save for Cid's tree, it's always changing. The powerful oaks of one day are the graceful willows of the next; rigid pine reigns for a moment only before succumbing to dreaming poplar, its arms weighted down with gossamer….

Minwu's near-smile turns to a bitter smirk. In fairy tales, monsters are generally announced by symbols, gruesome in both character and magnitude. In life, they are more typically known by their beauty.

Pulling the cowl of the First Mage of Fynn tightly around his face, he makes a small sound of disgust before calling Sight to his eyes. He has no time for indulgent contemplation. He's been called to audience with the "Great Will" after all. Such meetings rarely have seats for sane or measured thinking.

No matter how many times Minwu's opened his mind to this spell, the initial dilation of his pupils is always shocking. Light and magical detail rush into his mind in with painful clarity. The invisible world splashes naked over his retinas. He doesn't have any choice except to See.

In Fynn, this enchantment used to open the whole world to his eyes: unbridled skies and Kashuani roses and the like. Here in the Rift, it shows him things that are rather less pleasant.

Strange, lead-eyed things that sit on the edges of his perception, just watching.

It makes him nauseous to look, but necessity is necessity. And through the visceral shudder that seizes him, he finds what he's looking for, carved into the bark of the tree. Cid's passphrase, which shifts nightly, as the Fracturing Forest does.

Such petty security measures. _A paranoid man_ – Minwu squints at the alien letters, tries to puzzle out which language it is this time – _in the shape of a paranoid god._ He guards this place so covetously, as if his little experiments were the most sacred of knowledge. As if it mattered to any but he.

Minwu exhales a sharp, disgusted breath before finally recognizing the phrase. "A Path to the Rotting Land", it reads, but even as Minwu mutters it aloud and wonders what it means, he realizes that he does not care.

Even before the words have faded from the corners of Minwu's mouth, he can feel the shimmer of a Teleport spell over his skin. The world around him dissolves into gold-swirling atoms, and when he reforms again, the soft moss-scented comfort of the Fracturing Forest is gone and he is _here_, again.

_The Great Caves of the Rift_. The laboratory of Cid of the Lufaine.

In horrified recognition, Minwu shudders. Beneath the roots of the Fracturing Forest, vast salt rivers carved this place from pure mythril when the highest of magic could not. Too barren even for decay, here it smells only of water, mineral, stone. Lit by pulsing veins of hardened mana, everything is cast over in hallucinogenic blue.

_Everything_. The stalactites and the brutal, silver-black stone. The dead, salt-clotted river. The soft maggot-forms of crystal ore that slither, half-sentient and still so revoltingly _curious_, over his boot –

Seized by convulsive disgust, Minwu shakes his left foot. The globs of crystal he shakes free seem to hiss or giggle, and then surge into a broken facsimile of his own face before returning to a puddle.

As if in hive mind, the other blobs of ore infesting the chamber chatter and buzz.

Minwu does not understand why every time it remains as revolting as the first. Despite himself, he doubles over in a dry, truncated heave.

"_Ah, my friend." _The sound of Cid's amused voice echoing through the vaulted stone is very nearly enough to pull actual vomit from Minwu's empty stomach. "_Still squeamish, I see. Come, we've very much to discuss you and I. Do try not to dawdle."_

The end of the sentence is followed by the vaguest teasing apart of the muscles beneath Minwu's skin. Now that he's left the Phantom Village, it's only Cid's will that keeps the cursed lacerations from opening their mouths again. He can withdraw it at any time, as lightly and cruelly as a lover withdraws touch.

"_If you please, Minwu. The Library."_

Wiping bile from his lips with the First Mage's cowl, Minwu snorts a derisive laugh. It has been a long association, and by this time Cid knows how best to formulate his arguments.

"Aye, Cid." Minwu straightens. "Momentarily."

The path to the Library is one that Minwu has walked too many times. It is not silent here, but whatever sounds there are guard their territory jealously. He walks through the arterial corridors at their indulgence: his footsteps barely tolerable in a world of plumply dropping condensation; scratchy wind from a forgotten surface; the repetitive cicada hiss of crystal ore in its fetal state.

Minwu does his best to keep his eyes fixed level and on nothing in particular other than the path ahead. To his left and right, the Sight that blights his eyes show him the shadows of half-finished experiments: perfect crystal simulacra of one man. The pulsing red and blue net of human circulation is visible beneath the surface; as is the dark white sclera of half formed eyes.

Presented to a gaze that didn't know what it was looking at, Minwu imagines these earlier versions of the Warrior of Light would seem like teaching tools for the anatomy of angels, simultaneously sacred and profane.

_How similar they are, violence and glory_. Only the thinnest margins separate them, yet that small space contains so much of man's beauty and madness and vanity, so many of his sins…

If parts of these beings still contain aborted souls, Minwu doesn't want to know. He rushes forward, content with the lesser wrong of willful blindness. He has already done enough to deny himself Raqia's grace. For the momentary respite that not looking will grant him, he is willing to take one more mark against his soul.

Increasing his speed, the only thought in Minwu's mind as the Library rises into view is that he hates this place. Save for Aerith's gentle hand, and that single moment of ascendance he felt over the broken form of the Light Emperor, he has never known a feeling to rival it.

"_Come now." _The voice booms over Minwu's ears the second his feet find the incongruous carpet Cid had him lay here, however long ago. _"Some men would lay waste entire nations for the knowledge you've acquired. Onrac would have ransomed half the world for your mind."_

"Some men." The scent of the moldering books lingers in Minwu's nostrils as he answers. It's a small room, and claustrophobic to the point of collapsing on itself it traps what heat there is in the Great Caves. Nevertheless, he feels cold. "I would that you had summoned them."

"_Still the petty moralities, Minwu?" _If a disembodied voice can sound bored, this one does._ "The things we learned – " _

" – are not for the minds of men." Minwu does not hesitate to cut him off. He has long past the point where he is concerned with appearing defiant. Cid's lack of a body puts him at a distinct disadvantage, and while Minwu knows that he is a slave, he knows also that he is one not so easily replaced.

"_Curious." _Resonant as ever, Cid's voice bounces around the chamber, seemingly increasing in volume as it careens off of the useless tables and chairs, the distorted shelves that lean – crippled and overburdened – against the cavern wall."_You still think you're just a man?" _

"Yes." The skull-grating _tap, tap, tap_ resounds through the Library at rhythmic intervals, and Minwu winces every time. "I do."

"_It's irrational, you know."_ Minwu cannot tell if Cid is toying with him again, but he thinks he feels ghost fingers list over the scars left by cursed wounds. "_To continue to believe something in the presence of overwhelming contrary evidence."_

A shudder crawls up Minwu's spine. He turns his head, but the scowl pulls over the contours of a sneer he can't conceal. "Is there a point to this, Cid?"

"_Is there ever a point to a game of chess?" _Unstoppable, the taps continue. _"I was granted but one pawn. Indulge me a moment of play."_

"Do as you will."

"_Consider Cosmos, for example."_ Cid's voice deepens, become grossly professorial. _"On some level she still pities. She feeds the Dragon from her own fingers – scraps of the souls of men who are good, by her estimation – and yet, she still considers herself something of a mother. Capable of kindness. Even grace."_

Crossing his arms, Minwu inclines his head. "These six were spared by her hand, Cid," he points out.

"_They were spare by __**my**__ Will." _Cid's voice, ordinarily so urbane, tightens and snaps. "_At the risk of all we've accomplished. I drew a veil over their magic so Shinryu would not see. I offered dying Etro her champion. If there is gratitude owed for mercy here, it is owed to me. If there is valor bestowed in the danger, it is mine." _

There is a brief pause in which the unbreathing spirit almost appears to Minwu to stop for breath. _"Our work is threatened by this delusion."_

"Your work," Minwu corrects. "Your prophecy. Your revenge."

"_Revenge." _A laugh bloats the dusty air. "_A hollow, idle thing, wrongly sought. Time has made me thankful for Onrac. I am content here: the Warrior gives me much to consider, and Cosmos is much improved. In the end, the price was not so steep. It's better this way, don't you think?"_

"A fortunate change of heart." Minwu only shrugs, indifferent to his core. "Once your bargain with Etro is done, all will be well then."

Minwu does not have words to describe the cold that infiltrates the chamber. It sinks it teeth through his cowl, splatters his skin with gooseflesh. And as suddenly as it began the tapping stops, and rotting silence steals in, soft-centered and old.

"…_Do you imply something?"_

"Only that Shinryu must be pleased." Almost indolent, Minwu leans against a bookshelf, admires the graceful gold-leaf penmanship on the spine of some ancient text. He stares at it long and hard, focuses on unbroken line of it, anything to keep his mind from straying to close to things that Cid must not be allowed to know. "Who knows how he might have reacted, if you'd returned to World A before he'd eaten his fill? There might have reason to fear as we do now – "

"_Tread wisely in your speech, Minwu,"_ Cid replies, distant and superior.

"Of course." With the flourish of man raised in the Fynnish court, Minwu offers a bow to the empty room. "I'd thought we were merely…playing a match." He pauses, rises. "Though you haven't yet told me the reason for this summons?"

"_Ah."_ Cid's voice is suddenly bright again; the library chamber, suddenly warm. The tapping recommences. Again. Again. Again. _"Yes. I understand you suffered somewhat, collecting these souls from where they fell in the Rift. I sometimes forget the terms we placed on your servitude."_

"I survived." Minwu doesn't like the sound of his voice over the answer. It seems small and defeated to his own ears and he reviles it.

"_No matter. I could not have assisted in any event."_ There's a quick, contemplative pause. "_I cannot be seen to aid you directly. You know as well as I the lords of the Rift can have no direct confrontation."_

Of all the impulses Minwu has had to stifle since coming here, the urge to laugh he has now is perhaps the strongest. Both he and Cid know very these are agreements Shinryu has no intention of honoring. But there is no need to belabor the point. "Very well," he concedes. "Is this audience an apology then?"

"_Of a sort, perhaps."_ There's a mocking contemplation in Cid's tone that Minwu has come to know well. _"I am aware you are diminished. And that you might need assistance in drawing the poison from Etro's Undying. So I wanted to show you something I've been working on. I thought perhaps I might assist – "_

"What?" Minwu feels the muscles of his jaw clench involuntarily.

"_I've often been impressed with you, First Mage of Fynn." _The voice that's speaking to him somehow becomes both softer and more concrete; the sound of tapping more narrowly articulated, as if emanating from a single point on the ground. _"Surely you know there's no finer mind than yours in fourteen worlds. It was the reason I chose you, when I could have had any pawn at all."_

Frantically, Minwu blinks. There is no telling whether it's the remnants of the Sight in his eyes or whether his mind is playing tricks on him, but he thinks he sees the ghost of smile cut out of the dark in front of him: a slim line of smoke. It's followed by mean pinpoints of grey and white: the bleached, incorporeal shadows of human eyes.

A fist of cold settles in Minwu's stomach, and he sucks a long breath through clenched teeth. "What have you done, Cid?"

Almost as soon as the image forms, it dissipates. It leaves behind only a shimmer of heat and a sharp-toothed quiet that nips at the edge of Minwu's perception, lazy and threatening.

"_Patience my friend._ _Return to the Inn._" Cid's voice is directionless again, coming from everywhere and nowhere as it fades away. _"You'll see soon enough."_

* * *

><p>Over the past couple of weeks, it's started to become clear to Laguna when he's having a <em>dream <em>dream; and when he's having an evil, horrible magic night-terror dream prominently featuring the end of the known universe.

_Dream _dreams usually involve pleasant things. Him, giving a fantastic speech (sometimes naked, sometimes not). Pretty people. Sharply tailored clothes. Tea sandwiches. He doesn't know why tea sandwiches make the cut. Maybe he just likes them. They don't have crusts, and they're portioned in nice, bite-sized little pieces that are just so damn civilized.

He really wishes he had a tea sandwich right now. Because being trapped in evil, horrible magic night-terror dreams usually involves, well, _shit –_

This. And _this_ is something that he distinctly does not like.

It's different from the other ones, this dream. In the other ones, there's a decay-faced demon with a mouth like a bloody gash and a barrel chest that makes it seem like the thing could bench press a billion metric tons of dwarf galaxy. Ellone's usually there too, and she's happily waving it in his face, mumbling cryptic gobbledygook that would remind him of a low budget fantasy movie if it didn't scare the Hyne-fearing fuck out of him. But _this – _he swallows – this is different.

It's so much quieter. _Please, please, __**please**__ don't be real._ It's so much worse. _Please don't. Take anything else you want, just – _

She's lying on a bed, his beautiful, nameless wife. Her face is bloodless pale and dull with dried sweat. He can tell she's breathing, but it's shallow, and Laguna doesn't think it's helping her much. Whatever oxygen's getting through isn't making her any better.

Probably the most important thing is for Laguna to not look at anything below her face. He did when he first dreamed himself here – _Winhill _(for some reason he can name the town but not the woman) – and the rose garden of blood on those white, white sheets nearly pulled his guts out of his stomach.

Now, Laguna's been a soldier for longer than he cares to think about. He's humped hundred-pound rucks through shit terrain and live theater. He's sniped targets from close to a thousand feet away, watched their heads dissolve into pink mist. Death and he are old buddies by now, and he knows fatal blood loss every time.

This is fatal blood loss. This woman – his woman, his _wife _– is dying. _Softly and gracefully, _he thinks. But still dying. And she can't see him or hear him. He can't say goodbye.

Light drifts in through the open window, pink tinged by translucent curtains. The words _"Oh, darlin'"_ stick in his throat. He can't get them past the grief that's got its elbow at his Adam's apple, its knee in his groin. _"I'm sorry, beautiful. I – "_

The best that Laguna can hope for is that this isn't real, that it isn't a memory of the life he left behind. The family…

_Did I leave them?_ The lead point of the realization is blunt and cold. _Did I…?_

And he can't remember her name. He still, even now, when he needs it the most, he still can't remember.

In the dream, he's standing stock straight, just looking down at her. _Please Hyne. Don't do this._ His hands are totally useless. He can't use them for anything that would help. _What if I ask nice?_

Laguna doesn't think that there's anything on any world that could force him to drag his burning eyes off her face. He's pretty sure that despite the fact this is the worst nightmare he's ever had, it'd be even worse if he turned away. He wants to look at her. He figures he hasn't seen her in a long, long time.

"Come back to me, darlin'," he whispers. "I'll take you dancing. I'll…"

He doesn't pay attention to the feather-light footsteps that shamble into the room. They're not important, he thinks. Of course, that's before he realizes that they're attached to a little girl. Before he hears the smacky, wet, baby-sounding –

It's a dream, but Laguna nearly feels his knees come out from under him. A baby. _Oh Hyne. _His wife. _His baby. _And him – he knows with cold, hard certainty – nowhere to be found.

He's somewhere else. Eating or sleeping or having a beer or something that has to be the stupidest thing on earth because whatever it is, it means he's not _here_.

Pivoting on the spot, Laguna sees them, hiding in the spindled shadow of the doorframe. Ellone as a little girl, cradling a tightly swaddled bundle that gurgles and spits like all babies do. It's not a big baby but Ellone's tiny enough that carrying it takes up almost her whole chest. And over top of its mottled, newly-born face, her pretty brown eyes are wide and watery and afraid.

"Kiddo." Laguna puts everything he's got into the endearment, hoping it'll make her less scared. "What's – what's going on here? Care to fill your old man in?"

He holds out a hand, but Ellone's eyes pass through him. Even in the dream, he's absent.

"Laguna?" The wispy sound of his name from his wife's mouth turns him right back around. "Laguna…I…where…"

Immediately, Laguna drops to his knee. It's a crazed, inarticulate hope that jumps up through him. That maybe she can see him, hear him. _One last time, babe. _"I'm here," he whispers, raking through his mind for her name. "Don't you worry about anything. I'm here, I – "

It dawns on him that he's still talking, even as Ellone and the baby have rushed in from the door. Even as he sees the way his wife's blurry eyes aren't on him and thinks this feels a hell of a lot worse than getting his knees knocked out.

_Knees, teeth, nuts. Pick a body part…any body part…_

"He isn't here." Ellone speaks slowly and sadly. "I am though. And so's the baby." She struggles with the weight, trying to lift it so his wife won't have to move so much. "See._ Look._"

Laguna turns just enough to see Ellone's nose is reddish, along with the rims of her eyes. She's not crying now, but she was. "He's healthy now," she continues on, determined. "But quiet. I…I like him."

_Him._ A son. Laguna can't find any more words in his mind.

"That you, Ellie?" His wife struggles through whatever delirium she was in before, and the pupils those sea-blue irises narrow to semi-focused points. She turns her head, and strings of brown hair stick to the ridge of her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw. When she talks, Laguna can see the dry skin flake on her bottom lip. "…You look so big."

Ellone sniffles before nodding vigorously. "I am." She's still not crying. "I grew…I grew when I was gone. I'll be able to help. When Uncle Laguna comes back…"

The woman on the bed smiles weakly, and desperate Laguna reaches over to try and cup her face. His dream-hands are spectral though, and they pass right through. He can't touch her. He can't touch her anymore and she can't touch him back and he feels sick.

Every word he ever wanted to say seems so unbelievably stupid right now.

"…Laguna…" His wife's voice goes insubstantial, like the look in the eyes that are half-rolling back in her head. "…tell him…you'll tell him. I missed…"

"No." Ellone shakes her head hard and the baby makes a soft, bubbly sound of discomfort. "I won't tell him anything. We're gonna say it together, when he comes back, and then we're _all _going to get the monsters again. The baby too. Him, _too._"

She blinks, this dying woman Laguna had wanted to build a life with, bleary. "…the monsters…all those monsters…" Her lips pull weakly, because her body barely has any blood in it anymore. Laguna can tell because her movements are creaky and painful, and he thinks maybe he'd give back every good thing he'd ever had if he could just take it away from her.

"Please." It's the only word he can muster, and no one can hear him, and it isn't enough.

"…Remember Ellie," she struggles, and now her eyes really are rolling back in her head, "…real monsters…harder to see…Take care of your brother. And do…promise you'll tell him I…"

_She should blink again_. He's been watching her eyes this whole time, waiting for some kind of recognition that never came, so he knows that it's about time for her to blink again. But she doesn't. The eyes stay open. Eyes that are blue like sea or sky or everything else that's nice and blue and not cliché that he can't think of because _shit, shit, __**shit.**_

"Raine." Dream lips fold over her name – _finally – _but it's too late.

Yes. No. _Shit. Hyne._

"Please don't go." Ellone's voice is so small it fits right in the cracks in Laguna's chest. Giant, silent, little-girl tears are falling down her face now, and he wants to comfort her but he's paralyzed. He can't do anything to make them stop.

"Raine? _Raine?_" Just a touch of panic now in the tone – ragged and pitchy – but not enough to disturb the baby. "Please don't leave." Struggling, she shifts the baby's weight so she's holding it one arm against her chest. With the other, she picks up what Laguna' knows is going to feel like a live hand, except loose and pliant and dead. "Come on. We still have to get…to go get…Please?"

Of course Raine doesn't answer. Already dull, her eyes stare off into nothing.

Laguna doesn't know what to do. _It's a dream_, he keeps telling himself. It's a dream that doesn't have to be real. He's got no way of knowing if this is how it went down. But every time he repeats the rationalization, it seems more and more like a lie.

The true story – he can't escape it now – is that once upon a time Laguna Loire had a family. And then he left, and she died, and he didn't have one anymore.

Without thinking, Laguna raises his dream hand to the back of Ellone's head. He still knows it's one of those weird night-terror things, and that she won't be able to feel it because he can't seem to interact with anything this time around, but he wants to comfort her anyway. On some level, he still wants to see if he can make it better.

It's therefore one hell of a surprise when he feels her tense under his hand. When she turns her big brown eyes on him, they're dry.

"Don't touch me." The words that come out of little dream-Ellone speak in her adult voice. And where there was seizing grief in his stomach five seconds ago, now it's laced with cold-burn fear. "Please don't."

Laguna's mouth goes dry. Or he thinks it does, anyway. It's a dream, so he can't be sure. "Ellone, what's happening?" He pauses, and the grief's still so hot and real and immediate he can't think straight. "Why'd you show me this darlin'? Is this my _son_? Is – is there a way – "

"You can't change the past." The adult voice out of Ellone's rounded child lips lances Laguna through to the core. "I tried that once already. I wanted to show you so you'll know. So you'll know what's at stake."

"Stakes for _what?_" Anger's seeping into the pain and fear now. He loves this kid, but she's testing his patience. And he thinks he's had just about enough stumbling blindly through horror and confusion. "Why don't you just up and _tell _me, darlin'? If it's so important, just spit it out."

Hugging the baby closer to her chest, Ellone's big brown eyes flash. "I would if I could. But I can't make your decision for you. Harmony's gifts don't work that way." She pauses, presses her lips to his son's newborn brow. "It's all I can do, Uncle Laguna. I'm…I'm so tired now…I can't connect like this anymore…"

If there was a mess of emotions swimming in Laguna's stomach that was equal parts pain and fear and anger, now it's all fear. This kid may have been invading his dreams, but _fuck_, she's still his kid. And for some reason the idea of not seeing her…of just remembering Raine…of finding out about his _son_, and then her leaving him alone in this bullshit place…

"Hey. _No_." The words tumble and trip and make very little sense, even to Laguna. "I didn't mean to get mad. I can help," he says, even though he doesn't know what he's talking about. "I – we'll figure somethin' out. I'm not just gonna leave you, _him_. I won't give up. I – "

"I hope so." The grown-up voice seems almost like a little girl's again, but maybe that's just a trick because everything's fading now. _Fast. _Like the bottom's dropping out of the whole world. "I've gotta go now. Goodbye, Uncle Laguna."

"No." Laguna will not believe he just found his kids and they're going, going… "No." The fear is pure panic now. "_Wait –_ "

"I missed you. I'll always miss you." She pauses. "He will, too."

"_No!" _Laguna can hear his own voice echo in a world that isn't a dream. "No. No, not _now – _"

When Laguna bolts upright, he doesn't quite know where he is. He's in a room with a bed, but it's not the room with a bed that he was just in. Light's streaming in through a window, but it's not the right light, the right time of day, the right world.

Laguna presses his eyes shut, hoping pointlessly that when he opens them again, he'll be back there, with his kids. It doesn't happen. And for the first time in maybe his entire life, he's got nothing to take the edge off the pain.

He breathes and there's air and it's ordinary as can be but everything's wrong anyway. His tags feel alien and itchy on his bare chest so with a single yank, he breaks the chain and pitches them against the wall.

They crash into something glass – _hopefully not a mirror, _he thinks, because at this rate he doesn't think he can take anymore bad luck – and the shattering _crunch_ is as loud and awful as it is just really damn satisfying. It's a clean, honest thing. It makes sense.

"You've got to be fucking with me." Laguna grabs the sides of his head and rocks over his outstretched legs. He doesn't know who the hell he's talking to and he doesn't care. "Seriously, Hyne. You've _got..._**"**

Laguna's senses are so raw, the sound of light footsteps racing down the hall should probably freak him out. So too should the feeling of weight on his bed, the slim hands that have grabbed his shoulders and started shaking.

"Laguna!" It's Yuna's voice because it's always Yuna's voice. Because if there's one person here who's strong enough to take everything the universe has thrown at his sorry ass and bear it without a bend in her spine, it's her. "Laguna, are you alright? I heard the noise from the infirmary. What – what happened? Was it another dream?"

Pursing his lips, Laguna blows out a long, shaky breath. He clenches his fist in his hair and draws it back out of his face before answering, "It was nothin', hon," he lies. It's anyone's guess if he's trembling or not. He sure as hell doesn't know. "No biggie. Old soldier's flashbacks. Nothing else."

Yuna shakes her head. Gently, the hands that are at his shoulders stop shaking him and move to disentangle his grip from his hair. "Laguna," she chides. "It's okay, you can tell me. We're here to help each other, right?"

The flash of tension that surges through Laguna' forearms is something he has to fight down before Yuna has a chance at moving them. It's hard though. For some reason, he feels like he's caught in a firefight, and if he lets down his arms, all hell's going to break loose.

He laughs. Or maybe she'll just see how scared and – _oh, about sixty-four percent crazy – _he is. The fists clench harder. _That's a possibility. _Breathing deep again, he focuses on calming down. On remembering that going completely batshit never actually helped anyone. _Don't go batshit, Loire._ The thought seems to work and he's too freaked out to wonder why. _Do not go batshit._

_Whatever. _Not much of a mantra, but it'll do just fine for now.

"It's okay." Even with the tension in his arms more or less cut, it takes a while for Yuna to pull his hands down from his head. Eventually though, she manages to gather his hands into her lap and rub them gently. "You'll be okay."

Still not looking up all the way, Laguna makes a sound that might pass for a laugh if the person listening to it was drunk. He looks at her through the mop of his hair, he feels his lips make some kind of attempt at a smile. "'Course I will, kiddo.'" His voice sounds hoarse. "I'm not gonna let a little _sleep_ beat me down. Come on, now. You know me better'n that by now."

"Of course," she says reassuringly. Her face is as serene as ever, but she doesn't stop rubbing his hands. "If you've still got your sense of – _mmphf_ – "

It happens before Laguna even really realizes he wants it or he's done it. Maybe it was just because in that second she looked _so_ much like Raine. Or maybe because the feel of her small soft hands on his is about the only good thing he's felt in ages. Or maybe because he cares about her, and he's confused as hell and just needs – he doesn't know – something _real_, but before he can really think about the consequences, he's kissing her.

He's kissing her. And her lips are soft and pliant. They don't taste like any kind of fruit or anything, but they're still sweet, and a part of him feels her kissing him back. He thinks he's hallucinating it, but when her fingers come up to his jaw, the touch sparks through him.

_It's nice. _Deepening the kiss, he takes her hand in his and pulls her closer. He's about to push farther, lose himself in the warmth her small mouth and the grace of her small hands when he feels it. Her sudden stiffening. The slight pulling away, the muttering of words: _"No. Tidus…_"

_The fuck am I __**doing**__? _The thought muscles into Laguna's brain, ices the moment cold.

"_Hyne._" Mortified, Laguna pushes back on the bed in a split second. He's lost it. He's sure he's lost it. _So much for 'Don't go batshit' . _"Yuna, I'm sorry." He can't apologize fast enough. "I don't know what came over me. I should never – "

"No." Yuna's flushed, but she's the first to reach out and grab his hand before he retracts it fully in disgust. "No, it's my fault, I shouldn't have..."

"Hey," Laguna's breathing hard, struggling for composure he doesn't have. "Don't you _ever_ be sorry." Shaking now, he turns over his left hand, sees the dull glint of the ring on his finger and forces the quaver out his voice. _Mistake. Mistake. Confused mistake. _"I…" He stops, swallows. "I was dreaming about my wife. Just…just got a little mixed up there. I'm so sorry."

"Your wife?" Yuna blinks, and Laguna thinks it's strange how the hideous yellow light only makes her eyes prettier.

"Yeah." Laguna clenches his hand so he doesn't have to look at the ring anymore. It doesn't work. Without other hands to keep it away, the grief comes back in waves. He swallows. "She…she died."

"Oh, Laguna." Yuna's face almost glows with sympathy. "I'm – I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"No, really. Don't worry about it. I think it happened a long time ago. I just need a minute…" Laguna trails off. He means every word of it, but for some reason he still feels like warmed over shit. "But how – " Stumbling over the simple words, he knows he's grasping. "How 'bout a hug?"

"Of course." Yuna's hand goes to her mouth for only a second before she throws her arms around his neck. "You don't have to ask that, Laguna," she says. "You don't ever have to ask for that. "

Laguna opens his mouth for something to say, but his jaw just opens and closes. And as Yuna puts her at the back of his head, he can't help how hard he crushes her.

When he finally speaks, he's got to force it. It hurts so much to say. "Never enough time, kiddo." He breathes and the air feels thick. "You can't get it back."

It's almost a surprise, how strongly she hugs him back. "No, you can't." The voice she uses to agree with him is wise and musical and sad. "But you can remember."

Laguna's got no answer. All he can do is hold her. She's sweet enough to hold him back.

* * *

><p>As Yuna makes her way back towards the infirmary, the warmth of Laguna's arms is still on her skin, the taste of his lips still in her mouth. Her footsteps ring loudly in her ears, but not as loudly as her thoughts.<p>

She's never kissed anyone but Tidus before. She presses her fingers to her lips, feels the tingle of leftover sensitivity. Honestly, she didn't really think she ever would.

_It was different. _Laguna's older, taller and broader. And it was a different kind of kiss, too. She doesn't know if she should describe it as harder or softer. She doesn't know what to think.

The closest is that it felt like he needed it more.

Rounding a turn into the back hallway, Yuna shivers, exhausted, cold and confused. She blinks, setting a path to where candlelight spills from the open infirmary door, casting a warm, living glow over still-life amber.

It wasn't unpleasant, the kiss. And Laguna's a fine man. As kind and honest as any guardian of Spira. _But no_ – she shakes her mind free of the thought – _it still wasn't right_.

_Because Tidus… _

Yuna inhales deeply, and as even though she doesn't have anything to trip over anymore, she feels like she's losing her step as she closes in on the sick room. She's always trying her best not to think about him. _He's gone_. Either he's dead or he's back in Dissidia, with Chaos. And it doesn't matter how much she aches with the reality of it, it doesn't make it less true.

She pauses for a moment in the arch of the door. Closes her eyes and lets the calm in. _He's gone. _She repeats the words to herself a few more times, until it's normal again. He's gone, and she's here, and Laguna just kissed her, but it didn't mean anything.

_He just needed a friend._

There's no reason it should still feel like a betrayal. Unless it's true that she really _can't _let go. Unless it's true what she's started to be afraid of. That she'll never be able to open her heart back up even a crack to let someone else inside.

_It could be_, she admits. But maybe she just wants to remember for a bit longer. Carefully, she reaches out to grip the doorframe. _Just a little while more._

Tidus told her to live: but living means looking back as much as it means looking forward, doesn't it? Finding a balance between future and past.

Closing her eyes for a beat, Yuna waits for clarity that doesn't arrive. Yevon is a dead god now, but she finds it difficult, still, to separate what she actually believes from what she always did, and the path forward seems cluttered and unsure.

_By steps._ Yuna ignores the erratic pulse of sleeplessness behind her eyelids. _The lessons of these journeys will reveal themselves by steps_. It's an old Yevonite saying, but Yuna likes it anyway.

Leaning her head so it rests right underneath her hand, Yuna opens her eyes again and lets the thoughts dissolve into the familiar tableau of the well tending the sick. The infirmary looks much the same as it did when she left it. Sir Kain's powerful body – one she can't ever look at without dreaming of flight – is still grounded and Stopped and layered in bandages. Aerith's still knotting her brow over his rigid right arm, pressing Esuna into the median basilic and median cephalic veins, and _Lightning…_

Lightning's still sitting there, cold and expressionless, just staring.

Alerting the room to her presence, Yuna inhales a soft, shallow breath. It's hard to watch her this way. So pained and quiet. Whatever power's changing her is giving her a terrifying invulnerability, but it can't shield her from wounds like this.

What Yuna wants more than anything is to tell her that holding on to her humanity is as simple as holding on to the things that make her _feel _human. But there are some things words can't say, so Yuna just walks into the sick room instead, and places her hand on the back of Lightning's head without comment.

It's Aerith who speaks first, and she doesn't look up from her work as she does so. "Did you figure out what that noise was?"

"Yes." Yuna replies. "It's, it's okay. Laguna just had…a nightmare, I think."

For a quick second, Aerith tenses, and Yuna can't tell if it's because of what she said, or because she can't seem to draw the last bit of death magic out of Sir Kain's arm. She turns the limb over and makes a small sound of disgust when she notes another patch of Rot that they've missed. "He's okay, though?"

"I think so," Yuna answers. "He went to go talk to Sir Minwu about something. How's Sir Kain? Any luck breaking the Stop?"

A thick lock of chestnut hair falls into Aerith's face as she cocks her head. "Nope," she answers, a rueful pull at her lip. "Not yet."

"But _why_?" Yuna makes her way over to Kain, edging through Lightning's immovable gaze as she goes. She presses her hands down on his ravaged chest. Even through the bandages, she can feel the heat of the infections still swimming in his bloodstream. Almost unconsciously, she feels Curasa bleed through her fingertips, push the poison back. The spell's still weak for some reason, but she casts it anyway.

"He's survived _so much,_" she says, pensive. "Just walking all that way with Doom should have killed him. How could he be having such trouble with _Stop_? It…it should have worn off by now."

Placing Kain's arm meticulously down on the bed, Aerith finally lifts her gaze. "Well, _that_ I think I've figured out."

Yuna inclines her head. "Really?"

Folding her arms, Aerith nods, and for the first time, Yuna can see how exhausted she looks. The bright green eyes are exaggerated in a porcelain face, and she looks even thinner than she usually does. _A ghost doll_, she thinks without wanting to. But then again, she's the only one who seems to be able to cast at full strength, and she's been at this for days.

"Yeah. I think so." Aerith gives no sign that she's noticed Yuna's staring. "Try a Summoning incantation."

_What?_ Lifting her hands from Kain's chest, Yuna raises her right over her chest in surprise. "But why?"

Aerith rolls her head to try and get a knot out of her neck. She closes her eyes for the smallest of seconds and when she opens them again, they're even more hauntingly iridescent than before. "You'll see."

Quizzical, Yuna opens the fist that she's been holding to her chest. It seems wrong to be trying an incantation of control like this on a person. The one time she tried it was with Lightning, to help her control her brand. But then the parasite in her brand had already taken her mind, and it was more like Summoning the real Lightning back: an inversion of the brand's own perverted control. _With Sir Kain_… "But there's no need to, Lady Aerith," she objects. "His mind's not lost. He's just trapped in time."

"I wish." Letting out a thin sigh, Aerith slumps back against the wall. "Please just try it. You'll see what I mean. Go ahead."

Still hesitant, Yuna feels her lips purse, but she listens all the same. She knows that Vaan and even Laguna don't really trust her all the way, but whatever else Aerith Gainsborough is, she's a white mage of breathtaking power, and Yuna understands her on a level that they don't.

The first duty of White Magic is to do no harm. And so, even though she as her doubts, Yuna unfurls her palm, begins whispering. Ordinarily, she needs room to dance, to focus the incantation, but Kain's mind isn't like Bahamut's or Valefor's or any of the Fayth's. It's small and human, so all she really needs to do is sway her hand, lay the magic gently in the folds of his brain, Call his name…

_Except – _What she feels when she whispers the Call in his mind is terrifying. Warped by some magic she hasn't had any experience with, it feels like someone's placed hooks in it. His synapses are twisted, and almost burned. And while she can tell these spells were cast a long time ago, Yuna can still feel them, slick and sticky.

She gasps. It would be startlingly easy to pull these chains, to make him do almost anything.

"_Oh._" Retracting the control immediately, Yuna pulls back her hand. She feels her eyes go wide. Involuntarily, she shudders. "Oh."

The expression on Aerith's face hovers somewhere between sympathy and confusion. "His mind's been brutalized." She shakes her head. "I think he's probably got the highest stamina I've ever seen, but _compulsion…_It's no wonder – "

"No wonder _what?_" It's the first thing Lightning's spoken since Kain fell into the Stop, and the words have hollow points. Aerith and Yuna turn to look at each other before they turn to her.

"…Nothing," Aerith answers eventually in a way that Yuna knows Light's going to find completely unacceptable.

"Not good enough," comes the predictable reply. "No wonder _what?_"

Surprising herself, Yuna sighs. At first, when Sir Kain had explained that the wars in Dissidia were a cycle, she hadn't quite believed him. But as they travelled together, it started making more and more sense, and shared confidences – conversations she knew they couldn't have had in their time together – began floating into her memory, bit by bit. And she knows now (more, she thinks, than Kain could bear to have told in just one cycle) about his time in bondage and in exile.

_All the things he fought for and lost._ Yuna can't tell if the look on Lighting's face is anger or fear. _All the things he left behind._

It's a sad story about a good man, she thinks. And now that she's touched his mind, Yuna can see how easily it all could have happened. How simple it is for someone to lose everything, just like that…

"It's okay, Light," Yuna finally says, as comforting as she possibly can. "She just means that his mind's been wounded. That it's going to be very difficult to break this spell."

"Fine. Whatever. Not important." Yuna can tell that the answer's nowhere near what Lightning's looking for, but she doesn't push it. "What are the odds he gets up?"

It's still amazing to Yuna that even after all the journeys she's taken, all the things she's seen come to ruin, that it's the little things like this that always break her heart. The everyday impossibilities. Little chances at happiness, only missed by inches.

Showing how much she cares for people is hard for Lightning, but hope: Yuna thinks that's even harder.

_Because it scares her more_, Yuna guesses. And that's the saddest part of all, probably.

Yuna watches a swallow roll down Lightning's throat, a ripple on skin so white and perfect that it's almost every kind of wrong. Breathing deep, she tries for an answer but for some reason it doesn't come. After everything that's happened tonight, between this and poor Laguna's devastated eyes, she just – _for once_ – can't seem to find the words.

She's tired, she thinks. Just a little tired. She thinks she needs some sleep.

Watching her struggle, Aerith offers the reply that Yuna can't seem to give. "I'm sorry, Lightning," she says with the kind and ruthless efficiency of the finest of their guild. "We don't have any idea."

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: So you don't think I'm completely cracked, please note that the geography of the Rift is derived from FFV. I have taken liberties for added creepy, but the basics are there.  
><strong>AN**:Any questions on canon/continuity for this sucker can be directed by PM, or see my profile for a link to my fandom email.


	13. CIX2: To Cross the Sleepless Night

Chapter IX-2: To Cross The Sleepless Night

* * *

><p>"<em>And then there is the question, on which so much depends, of how we react to the damage [we suffer]…Some admit the damage, and try to mitigate it; some spend their lives trying to help others who are damaged; and then there are those whose main concern is to avoid further damage to themselves, at whatever cost. And those are the ones who are ruthless, and the ones to be careful of<em>."

Julian Barnes, _The Sense of an Ending_

* * *

><p>Lightning remembers it too well, the day her mother died.<p>

"_Fuck you. I'm not going to any damn orphanage. And you just **try** and take my sister from me."_

There weren't any tears. There was nothing to cry about. Rose Farron had been sick a long time, and by the time she'd finally let go of her life, there wasn't much left of it. Not really.

A breathing sac of a person: her hands were very small, very delicate, very thin.

"_Get away from me. I – I **said** get away. The next social worker you bring in here, I promise you…" _

It plays through her mind so clearly. The hospital smell. Serah crying in her arms. The rustle of coarse cotton, pulled professionally over a white, sunken face.

A promise.

"_I won't let anything happen to her, Mom." _Lightning has never held anything so tightly as she held Serah that day. "_We'll be fine. We'll be __**fine**__."_

Lightning tenses in her chair. How many people has she seen die since then? On the edge of her sword; on the .303 caliber points of her bullets; thrown from velocycles with her bare hands. And she was there when the world came tumbling down, too. Even now, she remembers it vaguely, but she can conjure the images, if she tries.

_Broken bones and shattered crystal._ _A beast out of legend, turned to a pillar that cracks the sky. Shards of stained glass floating, floating: a cathedral as a falling star… _

Who knew so much death could be so beautiful?

She doesn't know why then, staring at Kain's broken, Stopped body, why of all things, _this_ is bothering her. Why she feels like she can't sleep –like she can't fucking leave this room – until he moves or says some smart-ass thing. _Or anything. _

At this point, she'll take what she can get.

"Come on, Highwind." Pulling her knees to her chin, she glares at him. "You don't get to come back here just so I can watch you die again, hear me?"

A cat's cradle of anticipation stretches from her gut up Lightning's throat as she waits for an answer that doesn't come. Making a small sound of disgust, she turns away, digs her fingers into her skin. She can't believe how insane she must be going to have thought maybe…_Maybe – _

_Fuck. "_Fuck," she breathes. She feels herself shake but doesn't tolerate it. She breathes in and out until it's gone and rigid stillness claims another victory. "_Wake. Up._"

Only silence rises between them. It lurks in the amber light, as sleepy and powerful as the coils of some ancient snake.

Agitated and uncomfortable, Lightning lets her legs slide from the seat of the chair to the floor. The returning circulation feels good, but it's still not _right _because then she doesn't have anything to do with her hands. She experiments with different positions – legs crossed, arms folded; legs uncrossed, hands at her side – but then settles on just leaning forward, hand clutching her thighs, watching Kain's Stopped chest not breathe.

"So stupid." It's an accusation, but Lightning's got no idea who it's directed to anymore, so she widens her range: addresses chance, dumb luck, the universe in general. "This is so fucking stupid."

It doesn't answer her either. It's distant and indifferent and does not care.

She shakes her head. It's not easy for her to look at him. Trapped in a pocket of time, it's like he doesn't belong in the world_. _Even his injuries – the cross-hatching lesions, all those bloody stitches, and storm-colored bruises – seem borderline surreal.

He's a wax sculpture of a fallen solider; an inanimate ghost; another dead man in another mausoleum.

_And there's that right hand._ Gnarled and tense, it clutches the empty air like it's trapped there, in the act of always reaching…

The regret –_ fear? Anger_ _Does it matter? _– hits Lightning like physical pain. Swallowing it doesn't help. Neither does balling her fists, looking away, swearing under her breath.

"Kain." The sound of his name on her lips again still doesn't seem right. "Answer me. What – how – _dammit._" Her hand twitches as if to reach out, but she tenses her muscles and stops it.

Touching him doesn't seem like an option right now. His skin's waxy and wounded, and she doesn't want to think about how it might feel.

"_Just…talk to him._" Yuna said that, before she and Aerith left. It plucks at her nerves. _"You were close, weren't you? I think, I think it might help him, to hear your voice."_

_Close_. She inhales deeply. _Is that what we were?_ She can't tell. Couple of months ago, glaring at him over the tip of Gungir, she'd have been perfectly happy to kill him herself. Couple of days ago, she'd wanted nothing more than fetch him back from hell, if for no other reason than to throttle him.

For being so selfish and arrogant and careless. For thinking that one pointless act of heroism could make everything all right again. For leaving. _When we needed you. When I – _

But then again, there's the memory of angular steel, pressing into her lower back. Of powerful arms and calloused hands and thin, insistent lips slithering down her neck and over her name. A moment so raw, she thought it might bleed.

She lifts her hand. One by one, her fingers stretch out before she closes them to a fist.

"You _selfish _son of a bitch." Lightning tries again: every messy, self-contradictory thing she's feeling narrowing to a neat point of rage. She hears the crack in her own voice and despises it. "You ever think forone second what it is you're actually _doing_ to anyone – what you…"

She trails off when she realizes she was waiting for him to interrupt her. When the understanding that she's not going to be able to goad him into waking up slams into her, knocks the words from her lips.

All she wants right now is for him to just get up. Everything else can wait, she thinks. _Just get up._

_Please._

"_Talk to him."_

Lightning's seized by a momentary surge of frustration. _About what?_ The fact she's turning into some kind of demon, bit by bit? That no matter how many people are around her, she still feels completely alone? Or that she's pretty sure she's hallucinating things – not her past, necessarily, but this _place – _a starless world soaked in green halogen light; where she's kneeling, for some reason, in front of a shadow throne.

_Yes._ The answer barges into Lightning's mind even as it's still arguing with itself. _If that'll help, then yes._

She looks down at him. Still Stopped and silent and as good as dead, his face seems relaxed. He looks almost peaceful this way. _Honest. _Like she imagines he might have looked once, before he decided to take his weapon to his friends. Before he couldn't look Cecil Harvey in the eye. Before those scars on his back, the ones that look like burnt-up lace.

"_What are you staring at?_" he'd asked her once, some night that feels like a thousand years ago. Graveyard watch. Ambush. She'd helped him pull off melted armor that night, and it was the first of a handful of times she'd seen.

All she'd done was walk away. She didn't even ask. She should have.

"Asshole. What the hell'd you _do_ to yourself?" This time, Lightning reaches out before she can stop herself. Collecting his crippled right hand in hers, she presses it to her cheek and it's just as loose and corpse-feeling as she thought it would be. "What – How'd we even get here, you and me?"

Lightning closes her eyes into the silence, into answers he wouldn't give, even if he were awake. And when she opens them, Lightning notices the long, contorted fingers are wet with tears.

She almost laughs. She couldn't even tell she was crying. She thinks maybe she's forgotten how it feels.

Somewhere beyond the reach of this Phantom Village, seconds drip off the face of a clock, and Lightning waits as long as she needs to in order to get her composure back. If she's going to talk to a dead person, she's not going to do it like some blubbering idiot.

At the very least, she's got her pride.

"Alright, Highwind," she whispers finally, pushing the words into flesh so cold it terrifies her. "I'll make you a deal. You wanna play hero? Then help me." Lightning pauses; breathes; breathes again. "Because I am scared out of my fucking mind."

* * *

><p>"The only thing I'm sure of is that it isn't a dream.<p>

"I mean, hell. I don't know _what_ it is. Not really. But it feels too real to be a dream. I can smell it. The air tastes like ozone. And there are waves too: like an old woman breathing. So whatever – _wherever – _it is I saw after … after Raines…I can't – it just wasn't a dream.

"Déjà vu's probably the best way to describe it. I know my way around, even though I've never been there. But there's more to it. It's, I don't know, distorted, like I'm watching my life in a funhouse mirror –

" – _Shit_. That makes no sense. But I don't know, Kain. I've got no idea where else to start, and you're in a coma and have to shut up for once, so you're stuck with it, I guess.

"Anyway, what was I saying? Right. The place. I…I can't even describe it you. I'm wandering through it – there's this wild, lunar beach and a tower I'm going to – and there are all these broken buildings, half crumbled. No bodies though. I mean it looks like it's completely bombed out, but there aren't even bones left behind. It's that empty.

"Desolate, you know. A city at the end of the world. Except for – "

"I can't believe I'm doing this. I sound like a lunatic."

"Look, I said before that I could hear the waves, but it's not just that. From wherever it is I am, I can hear – I can't describe it – everything. There are no people, but there are whispers, and they're human, and they're sad, and they're really fucking scared."

"I didn't tell you. I've been getting my memory back. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to know that I killed a lot of people. I mean, everyone Cosmos summoned had some role in 'saving the world' or some bullshit, but me…Look Highwind, you wear the whole 'traitor with something to hide' act on your sleeve, but you're not the only one who's no saint. I broke the world saving it, and walking on that beach _I could hear them_.

"This is going to sound stupid, but it reminds me of this story I used to tell Serah. After our parents died and before I stopped being – well, before I enlisted. She's nicer than me by a long shot, but for some reason she always liked ghost stories. I never asked her, but I always thought she was displacing, you know. Better to be scared of ghost stories than social workers splitting us up. I mean, I was fourteen, she was twelve and –

"Seems ridiculous, doesn't it? We're fighting fucking legends and monsters, and I'm talking to you about Bodhum social workers like it's important. But whatever. That story.

"I made it up based on something from one of my Dad's old books. I don't remember him anymore. Pretty sure I didn't remember him anymore even when I was back home, but I guess he liked ancient mythology. His whole library was crap about absent gods and things like that. He collected it. Had to get a license too – the Primarch censored that stuff pretty heavily.

"Anyway, there was this one myth, about some goddess that tore up Her own skin to make the human race. She was created accidentally, I guess, and made humans because – I don't know, Kain – she was lonely or something. The story was pretty violent. Blood bubbling: skin and veins squirming out of dirt and crap like that, but that wasn't what bugged me.

"It was – who knows. Maybe it's the pathetic _selfishness_ of it. A mistake that multiplied Herself, just so She wouldn't have to be alone. Like people are toys or something, Stuffed Carbuncles and other shit that just gets thrown away.

"That was the other part. The whole point of the myth was that one way or another was that no matter what, everyone was going to die. It wasn't a tragedy – that's what the myth said – it was _fate._

"Honestly, it was creepy – well, creepy at the time – but I thought it was garbage. I still think it's garbage. I mean, back home we stopped it. I was made a l'Cie, and we tore a bloody hole through our world, but it didn't matter because we _stopped_ it. But after Raines…

"Damn it, Kain, I can't – If you could just have heard it – It was _soft, _but –

"I guess what I'm saying is this. Whatever I saw; wherever I was, I could _hear_ them dying, Kain. All of them. Everyone we saved. I could hear them dying, and there was nothing I could do to make it stop."

* * *

><p>Vaan doesn't mean to eavesdrop.<p>

The problem is that the Inn's a complete maze, and because he's getting turned around in the hallways, he keeps on hearing things he doesn't really want to. The creak of doors opening and closing; Aerith and Yuna chatting about some white magick mumbo jumbo he can't be bothered to try and understand right now; and some other quiet Lightning-sounding muttering, coming vaguely from the direction of the sick room.

It's the last part of that Vaan's really not interested in. Nothing good happens to him when Light gets the idea he's sticking his nose in her business.

Now, he's on his way to check up on Kain anyway, and if he knew the quickest way to get there, he wouldn't have ended up listening to so much of it. But as it is, all he's got to go by is the voice, so he follows it. And it takes him from Tifa's room down the long, schizophrenic corridors until he's basically on top of her.

He figures if Lightning asks he'll just tell her the truth. That he couldn't make out actual words, just sad-sounding mumbling. _Well, until now anyway._

From just outside the arc of the doorframe, he hears her whisper: "So…nothing to say?" She pauses. "No bone-headed plan?"

It's probably the tone of her voice that keeps him from just walking in. There's something so barren and small about it_. _

"I – _come on – _I…" she trails off just as Vaan moves from the shadow of the hallway into the door itself. He's half expecting her to round on him – usually she's got ears like some kind of bat – but she doesn't.

She just sits there, still as anything and looking thin and sick in the strange light, cradling Kain's hand to her face. Her eyes are closed, and it looks like she's breathing pretty hard, and Vaan doesn't think he's ever seen her look, so, _well_, normal. Like an ordinary person, looking after someone she cares about.

Crossing his arms, he leans silently against the doorframe. He watches and wonders what everyone's so worried about. _She looks pretty human to me_.

"Hey, Light," he says after a few beats, when he starts to feel like he's interrupting something. "How's he doing?"

At the sound of his voice, all the muscles in Lightning's body tense and she drops Kain's hand like it's infected with the Rotten or something. He watches her go straight for her hip before she: first, realizes that she's not armed; and second, that it's him and she doesn't have to shoot anything after all.

He smirks. _Definitely human._

"Vaan," Lightning snaps. "Don't sneak up me like that. How long – " she stops, shakes her head. "What are you doing here? You need to get some rest."

Shrugging, Vaan saunters into the sick room, undeterred. Idly, he wonders why it is both her and Tifa think he's got some kind of bedtime. "_You're_ not sleeping," he points out. "And you're the one that everyone's on eggshells over." Circling around the other side of the bed, he finds a patch of wall under the window to lean on. "He doing okay?"

Sparing a brief glance to where Kain's hand lies upturned and twisted on her lap, Lightning clenches her jaw before answering. "Who knows?" she says in that same vacant voice. "No change. Not dead."

"Well – " Uncomfortable with how he's leaned on his crossbow, Vaan shifts his position " – that's better than you thought last week."

Lightning's eyes flash. "Not funny."

"Not really meant to be," he responds, letting his hand drift down to the hilt of his knife. He guesses she was trying to scare him off with that last comment, but he's never really been afraid of Lightning. People think she's pissed off when she's really just scared. " Just pointing it out. And if he can survive a billion-seven foot drop from nowhere, he can probably break a stupid Stop spell."

There's brief pause where Lightning just looks at him, and Vaan sees her lips pull up at the side. "Point," she says. "But still, what are you doing here? You need to rest. We have to figure out – "

Crouching, Vaan shakes his head, bounces on the balls of his feet. "Don't you ever get tired of bossing people around, Light?" he asks, wondering where it is she actually got the idea that she's the one who gets to make up the rules. "Besides, you realize you're not his only friend, right? I mean, you weren't even _nice_ to him half the time."

Vaan watches as she almost unconsciously collects the clawed up hand in her lap. She fiddles with trying to find a grip on the fingers, but they're so curled up they don't fit right anywhere and he feels a little bad for her. Knotting her brow, she eventually growls, "That's not the point, I – "

"I get it," Vaan finishes for her. "Everybody's gotta take care of themselves but you. But you shouldn't worry so much. I know you don't believe it, but we can all pretty much take care of ourselves."

Putting his elbows on his knees, Vaan takes advantage of the silence to fold his hands and take a good, long look at Kain for the first time since coming into the room. Despite what he said a few seconds ago to make Light feel better, he's in seriously rough shape. The bruises are one thing, the curled-up Death hand too, but under the bandages on his chest there's actual dents where his ribs are broken, and the wound on his shoulder's so nasty and deep the stitches on it look like black, bloody teeth. How he managed to walk, let alone muster the strength to kill anything like that whatever-it-was in the alley is anyone's guess.

_Plus, _he can't help but think, _the whole not breathing thing is just messed up._

An uncomfortable quiver of worry wheedles around Vaan's chest. He always really liked Kain, even if he did have some truly screwed up ideas on how to win wars, and if he's a bit heavy on the brooding, dangerous bit.

Kain never treated him like a kid. Vaan interlocks his fingers over his knees. _Out-of-line cadet, maybe, but never a kid_.

"_Old enough to die like a man; old enough for you to treat him as one_," he'd said to Lightning once when they were on their way to the Empyreal Paradox. "_Motherhood hardly suits you_."

Vaan can't help but breathe out a quick laugh. He'd appreciated that comment. If for no other reason than it made Light so mad she quit barking orders for twenty-two minutes or so.

Sliding down to sit on the floor, he offers something up to the quiet. "How're you doing?"

Still awkwardly gripping Kain's hand, Lightning shrugs. "Fine. I mean, considering."

"Yeah." The word comes out with an amused hitch. "I guess there's only so good you can be when zombies are chasing us through the Rift. But I'm talking about the other stuff. Everyone else is a little freaked out by what happened on the ship there. Kain's one thing but you got nailed to – "

For the first time, Vaan thinks Kain's pretty lucky that he's out cold because the way Lightning's strangling his hand, it looks like she might break the skin. "How much did you hear?" Her voice goes back to being as sharp and corkscrewed and angry as ever. "How long were you standing there?"

"Calm down, Light." Vaan glares, a little annoyed that she can't seem to stop being pissed off for no reason. "I'm not trying to…I don't know…_take_ anything from you, so just relax. It's okay for people to be worried about you too, you know."

Lightning pauses before she answers, averting her eyes. "…Sorry. I know. I'm just edgy, I guess." It looks for a moment like that's all she's going to say, but then she looks down at Kain's hand and adds, "Aerith and Minwu think they can get rid of it. My brand."

The second her words hit his ears, suspicion narrows Vaan's eyes. And even though he figures that Lightning, of all people, deserves a chance to feel a bit of hope, he can't keep his response trapped in his mouth. "Wait – you _trust_ those guys?"

He regrets it. Literally as soon as he hears himself say it, as soon as he sees the expression on Lightning's face tighten, he wishes he could take it back.

"No," she says. "Of course I don't."

Silence swells between them as Vaan tries to think up a response. He doesn't want to make her feel worse, but it's good to know that someone agrees with him. Getting Teefs on-side is basically hopeless, but _if Lightning..._

Still, he feels like it wasn't fair, what he just said. Not right now. Not with everything she's going through.

"Look," he replies finally. "It's not important right now. We'll keep an eye on them together, okay. I'll leave you alone, and we'll deal with it later. I didn't mean to – "

"It's fine Vaan," Lightning cuts him off quickly and efficiently. "They're good instincts. I just…" she trails off, still trying to figure out a comfortable way to hold Kain's hand. "Never mind. They're good instincts. It's a good idea." She exhales something that Vaan almost thinks sounds like a laugh. "Maybe you're growing up after all."

"Maybe you're just noticing," Vaan says, hopping to his feet. He doesn't know exactly why – he's survived long enough on his own that he doesn't need anyone to tell him he's got good instincts – but he likes that she actually finally said so.

"Right," she mutters, returning her attention to Kain's waxy face. "Sure."

Straightening his vest, Vaan doesn't quite know what to say. He still feels bad about that comment he made, and he wants to make her feel better, but he knows that sometimes the world just sucks, and that's all there is to it. Sometimes wounds don't heal_. Sometimes people don't come back._ But still –

After a second, Vaan just shrugs, gambles on telling the truth. "For what it's worth, Light," he says, turning towards the door. "I think you'll be okay. I think you both will."

Lightning doesn't look at him. She's still watching Kain's face like he might disappear. "What makes you so sure?"

"Hey - nobody said anything about _sure_," he says, "I'm not sure at all. We could all die tomorrow and it would probably make the most sense of anything that's happened since we got here. But since we're stuck in this stupid place and I _don't_ believe Aerith or this Door of Souls crap, I…I believe in you guys." He pauses just a second before walking out of the room. "I think you'll get through."

Vaan doesn't expect a response, so the silence doesn't surprise him. In fact, the half-swallowed response that reaches him halfway down the hall almost makes him jump.

"Vaan." The sound of his name stops him mid-stride. "…Thanks."

Privately, Vaan smiles. Turning slightly, he throws his reply over his left shoulder, hears it echo down the sleepless hall. "Don't mention it."

* * *

><p>"I…I don't know, Kain.<p>

"I want to think it's the brand that's doing it. That this is the kind of thing l'Cie are supposed to see before their minds rot out, but I know that can't be it. I mean –

"Fuck_. _This is pointless. I don't know why I'm…

"Right_. Right._ Okay. If you really can hear me and you remember this when you wake up, if you _ever_ bring it up I promise you, you won't like what happens to you.

"Keeping this brand in place takes everything I've got, 've got no idea – after the desert, before Yuna and Aerith tied it off – I – _Kill, kill, kill. _It's not words. It's a compulsion. A constant push. If I'm not careful, I can't tell whether it's this thing or if it's me, wanting all that violence, all that –

"Look. You threw yourself off that bridge, we got closer and closer to wherever the hell it is Lindzei's hiding here: everything just seemed to collapse on me. It – I couldn't keep it back anymore. I couldn't hold it down.

"You're a soldier. You know how it is. You shoot, you kill, and it's a job. If you _don't_ kill, you're not good at your job. _A target's a target._ I never thought about how terrible that was, not really. Don't think, move on instinct, screw it if they're young, innocent, _whatever_. You've got an order to burn it down, you burn it down. Maybe have a drink after, a laugh. We're all trained to do it. Be casually psychotic, I mean.

"Turning into…what I'm turning into, _that's_ what it feels like, except it's all the time. Like rage that turns violence into some kind of joke_._ And in the Ruins, when it happened to me…I couldn't have cared less. I could've killed Laguna and Yuna and it would've been _funny._ I saw myself do it, too. There was this grey shit on my hands, and I – I liked it_._

"I would have done it, Kain. I – I wanted to.

"Whatever. Fucking over the top bullshit. It's done. Either way, what I'm saying is that this – with Raines – it wasn't like that. It was calm, I guess. I could hear the screams of those dying people, but it didn't feel satisfying, there wasn't any anger. It, it felt cold, low. Like white noise.

"There was just this crushing pity. I don't even know where it came from, but it was everywhere_. _Grief too. And regret.

"There are two things that stand out, I guess. I mean, the whole thing feels like I'm watching a movie underwater, but anyway. These parts of it I can't shake.

"It's Serah, first. I saw her dragged into whatever it is I'm doing. I know what it sounds like, but I saw her trying to find me, and she, _she.._.

"Ever make a promise you know you can't keep, Highwind? You know, I promised she'd fine. Our parents died, and I promised she'd be okay. It's so cliché, and life doesn't work that way, but she was supposed to get a chance. The whole point was that I was supposed to give her a chance."

"She has this idiot fiancé. And they wanted all these babies, and I was against it at first but then…For some reason the thought of her not getting any of it just kills me.

"And you want to know what? The worst part is that's not even what scares me the most. What scares the most is what I saw myself doing.

"I'm kneeling. There's this empty throne, in this empty place, and the floor's freezing but I just stay there, praying, alone. I can hear myself talking too…

"Yes, I'll fight for you. Yes, I'll _keep_ fighting for you. I will keep watch over your legacy_._

"It's _my_ voice, but I don't recognize it. And honestly, I don't have any idea who I'm taking to. It's – it's like someone else's words shoved down my throat. One more time, another slave.

"Damn it Kain. Why won't you wake _up_? I could really use – it's just –

"I hate her. If that's really me, then… I don't know. I don't know if I'd…rather not be the fucking monster."

* * *

><p>Unseen, Laguna leans silently against the doorframe of Minwu's quarters.<p>

Crossing his arms, he watches. Waits. Considers his options.

It's as clear as the screwed-up time on the clock that the First Mage of Fynn is nervous as shit. Because even though he's sitting at his desk, there's an edge to the way he moves. He's scribbling fast, as if he can't keep up with the thoughts in his head. Also, his cape's thrown back, and Laguna can see the extra tension that's cording his triceps as he writes.

Strangling a pen's not strictly necessary to get something down on paper. He's spooked, Minwu. _Badly._

Knowing this, Laguna figures he's got a couple of options. Plan A: force a confrontation now. Upsides to that include getting this guy off balance for once, and maybe getting a little extra information than what he came here for. Plan B: walk away. Wait until Kain and Light come around – damn he's happy that guy's back again_,_ little Stop setback notwithstanding – work out a nice measured plan where they get _all_ their answers at once, not just the Loire-specific ones.

Now, he's not necessarily so keen on plan A. For all the '_All will be revealed in time_' BS that's been driving Vaan nuts, he respects Minwu. First and foremost because he saved their lives. Laguna's got a pretty big soft spot for people who save his life. He awards extra points for doing it more than once (_last count was three_) and for doing it with a sense of style (_giant Thunder spell was pretty wild_).

He also respects the fact that Minwu's got some serious stones for doing all of the above while more or less bleeding to death. Back when he was a grunt, he was on the business end of a fair number of Curse spells and it's no joke. Anyone who says differently has lived a nice cushy life, and Laguna wouldn't be afraid to say he's jealous.

Laguna reaches the end of his rope though, when it comes to his family. Not that he'd had any idea about them – _not really – _until about two hours ago, but _hey._ _Better late than never._ And while he'll wait 'til Light and Kain come around to force the rest of it out of these guys, this part, well.

_This part of it's personal._

Narrowing his eyes, Laguna tosses a lock of hair from his face. There's zero question that Minwu knows his kid. And while he's probably happy to wait for the 'big answers' – mostly because he knows for damn sure that none of them are moving one damn inch towards this Door of Souls without understanding why – he's not so sure he's willing to let the smaller ones slide.

Smirking mirthlessly, Laguna decides. Plan A. _Pin-the-straight-answer-on-the-First-Mage_, it is.

"Hey." Laguna watches as Minwu almost jumps at the sound of his voice. A stray elbow knocks over an inkpot, and the orange-lit floor gets a spreading black bruise. "Buddy. You and me gotta talk."

Laguna's got to give it to Minwu that he knows how to take an ambush. He takes his sweet time turning around. Ignoring the ink spill, he unwinds both turban and cowl at a mile-per-thousand years pace before finally pushing back in his chair.

The squeaking sound of wood against polished wood pulls the nerves in Laguna ears. And by the time Minwu looks up him, his expression is impassive. Almost blank.

"Of course." As Minwu answers finally, crossing his legs and leaning casually against his chair-back. "What can I help you with?"

Keeping the preliminaries to a bare minimum, Laguna tightens his arm-fold. "Hate to keep you up and all, but I just need to get one thing straight." The lock of hair that he'd tossed out of his face finds its way back and he leaves it there this time. "You know my kid or not?"

Something that looks like the exact opposite of surprise flashes over Minwu's face. "Ah," is all he says.

"Um, no offence." Laguna starts tapping his foot and watches Minwu cringe. Satisfied, he keeps doing it. "But '_ah_''s probably not going to cut it. We're not playing Captain Cryptic today."

After a while, Minwu offers a small, respectful incline of his head. The movement casts a liquid shadow into the spreading ink, and Laguna's struck again by how strange this Village is. How all this ungodly stillness makes even the lightest things seem so damn heavy.

"My apologies," he corrects eventually. "Yes. Yes I know of Ellone."

"Know of' or '_know'_." Laguna feels his lips pull up in a disbelieving half-grin and thinks that for a guy this smart, Minwu's got something to learn about dodging questions. "Pretty big difference there, friend."

A highly-strung quiet stretches into an uncomfortable silence before Minwu corrects himself. "Know," he concedes, but volunteers nothing further. "I know Ellone."

Waiting expectantly, Laguna tenses through the realization that he's going to have to drag this out of the guy. Nerves that felt frayed before snap and singe.

"Now, you know I like you," Laguna prides himself on being a pretty patient, easy-going guy, but he's not playing around here. "I'm _very_ partial to people who save my life and my friends' lives." He pauses, breathes, forces the anger out of his voice. "But this is my _kid. _You don't hold back on a man's kid."

It might be a trick of the messed-up light, but Laguna thinks that he sees something flash in Minwu's cold, cobalt eyes. Candlelight or sympathy: Laguna doesn't care so long as he gets what he came here for.

"Very well." Slowly and deliberately, Minwu nods. "You've earned the right."

"Thanks – I think." The half smile jumps to a wolfish grin that Laguna doesn't feel at all. _Earned the right _wouldn't be how he put it, but hell. Answers are answers. "…So?"

Minwu gestures with his chin to Laguna's tapping foot. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Really bugs you that much?" Laguna's a bit incredulous that of _all_ the things Minwu's been through - he can come up with extended bleeding and pain, and close proximity to certain death just off the top of his head – a little foot-tap's getting under his nerves.

"Yes." The answer comes without hesitation. "It does."

Pausing, Laguna thinks hard about keeping at it, but just as he's about to rap his boot against the floor he sees the naked pain flickering in Minwu's eyes and stops immediately. "Okay," he says, setting his foot down silently. "Fair enough."

"Thank you." Minwu says. The relief that touches the edge of the level voice is barely there, but Laguna hears it loud and clear. "I appreciate it."

"Anytime," he replies. "_Now._ About my little girl…"

Folding his hands over his knees, Minwu looks down and then up again. He exhales a soft, tired sounding breath. "She's been searching for you in the Rift for some time." He pauses, rubs his hands together. "She helped us find you, when the Lufenian spared your souls at the Emyreal Paradox. This last time, she left a message."

"Wait." Laguna feels his throat constrict. He's got a thousand questions but only one comes out. "You mean you've been _talking _to her? You've been talking to _my kid _and you didn't – "

"Yes," Minwu cuts him off decisively. Darkened eyes flash from beneath a furrowed brow as he glares up. "She's been invaluable. It would have been impossible to do this, to rescue you and your friends, without her help. I apologize for keeping this from you, but it was necessary. Had we told you earlier; had you reacted in any way to alert Raines when he came…" Minwu trails off, redirects. "Lindzei's power is enough to trap her here. It's not something we thought you'd want to risk."

Laguna swallows. A sharp, unfamiliar anger twists around in his chest, spindles through his crossed arms and searches for something to punch. He controls himself. "So you made the decision for me? Not so sure I see where you get off – "

"Not seeing?" Minwu interrupts him in a cold, level voice that carries no hint of either regret or malice. If anything it sounds contemplative. "Do any of us see ever what we need to? Or is a man's sight only long when he's looking behind him?" Shifting in his chair, Minwu continues. "Aye, I made the decision for you. I doubt you'd have made a different one."

"Doesn't make it right." Laguna reacts immediately. He doesn't know how to feel right now because while he figures there's something to what Minwu's saying, it doesn't stop him from wanting to punch him in the face.

Minwu claps his hands together once. Twice. Laughs a humorless laugh. "Perhaps not."

It's difficult for Laguna to figure out how to feel. Minwu's given him an answer, but it's not a good one. _Or a whole one,_ he adds the thought because he'd wager just about everything he has on it. But at the end of the day, he's still a pragmatist. And he knows that indulging the urge he's got to unfold his arms and shake the rest out of a guy who can make Thunder dance little jigs for him would be about worse than useless.

Besides, the thing about secrets is that they're actually show-offs. The longer they're left to their own devices, the more they tend to want to reveal themselves. A guy just has to be patient, that's all.

He learned that as President of Esthar. After he…_after I…_

_What, Loire? _Without warning, the memory he's been trying to avoid hits Laguna square in the gut and laughs in his face. _Left your family for it? Left your own kid in a fucking orphanage for it?_

Laguna's eyes widen. _"You have to go back._" All the times Ellone's said that to him in dreams, and it didn't make sense. All those times, and he hadn't realized what he'd done –

"So yeah, about that message." Laguna keeps talking because letting himself think too much on this right now is a recipe for a breakdown, and he likes to keep those to one a night, if at all possible. "What – What'd she say?"

"That she loves you. That she always loved you." Simple and clean, Minwu sharp-shoots the answer. "Even when you didn't come back."

_And another left hook to the face, ladies and gentlemen_… "And my son?" Laguna feels more than hears the tear in his voice. "Don't suppose you've been talking to _him, _too?"

Leaning forward, Minwu shakes his head. "No," he says. "With regards to your son, I'm afraid I can't help you."

If the silence before was stretched and uncomfortable, what fills the First Mage's chambers now is absolutely necessary. It's not often that Laguna Loire can't bear the company of a well-spoken word, but for some reason, he thinks if one thing intrudes on the perfect soundlessness of _right now_, it just might break him the rest of the way in two.

Eventually, after some indeterminate amount of time has passed, Minwu says the only acceptable thing. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." The reply comes out broken-up and ragged. "No kiddin'. Me too."

Laguna doesn't know how long he stays standing there in the doorframe, thinking of nothing. It's only peripherally that he realizes that at some point, Minwu gets up, distant and quiet and dignified, to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Goodnight, my friend," he says softly.

With nothing left to say, Laguna just straightens, nods, walks away.

* * *

><p>There's no reason for Lightning to believe that she's really feeling the fingers in her lap curl.<p>

She goes through possible rationalizations. It's her strangling grip that's moving the joints. Her leg's asleep, and the tingling at her knee is the prick of the limb waking up. She's hallucinating. She's been up so long she's _clearly _–

"Lightning." The syllables coming out of Kain's mouth are puffy and wet. "You're breaking my hand."

She freezes. "…What?"

"Hm. You've gone deaf. Charming. I _said_," the familiar voice repeats, mildly amused, "you're breaking my hand."

Relaxing her grip immediately, Lightning blinks. Her eyes flit over him, take in the rise and fall of a breathing chest; a dull light glinting in hooded eyes; the awkward, abbreviated movements of a man rediscovering the bones in his body and blood in his veins. It's clear he looks like someone's yanked all his nerves out through the pores of his skin, but still. He's moving. _He's awake._

Kain winces. Relief hits Lightning like nausea.

"Lightning." It's possible that one of his stiff fingers runs teasingly over the top of her hand. "It's nicer to look at you…with your mouth closed."

A series of different possible retorts flicker over Lightning's mind but don't quite make it to her lips. She experiments with "asshole", "what the hell", "shut up", but none of those seem appropriate. Enough.

"Highwind." Leaning forward, she snarls, "I am going to _kill_ you."

Kain chuckles. "Is that why you're at my bed then?" Desiccated lips dance with a smirk. "I misunderstood."

The slice of anger that cuts through her feels fresh and clean. "You do not want to test me right now." Lightning pulls her hand away from his. "Look at you…" her voice softens against her will. "The hell did you do to yourself?"

"…to _myself_?" he manages, breathing out a clipped puff of air. Now that the Stop's worn off, blood seeps through the bandage at his shoulder in sleazy twists of crimson. "I assure you, very little of this was my doing. I realize you think I – "

Kain doubles over whatever he was going to say, and despite herself Lightning starts, decides in a flash that maybe – _this time_ – the argument can wait. "Are you alright? I'll call Aerith, just – "

"No," he growls. "I'm fine. Don't."

"Don't what?" Lightning's half on her feet already, swatting away Kain's still mostly-useless right hand. "Stubborn bastard, you think for _one _second I'm going to let you lapse back into that, you've got – "

"Don't _go,_" he cuts her off, wraps crippled fingers around her wrist. "I'm fine. I've no desire for other company. And we've some matters to discuss."

Lightning feels his gaze slides from her face and down her neck to lock on the torn fabric beneath her left breast. "What – I didn't say – " She narrows her eyes as she sinks cautiously back into her chair. "What did you hear?"

Not bothering to answer her question directly, Kain releases her, gestures weakly at the puckered scar sticking its tongue from between flaps of fabric. He tries to push the material aside but she stops him. "Who is Raines?" he pauses. "What is this?"

"Nothing." She tightens her grip on his wrist. "Leave it alone, Kain."

"No," he mutters. "I think not."

Lightning hesitates, pinned in between one feeling and another. She realizes that it was her decision to tell him. Her risk, anyway, that he could actually hear what she had to say. Still, words like _don't you dare look _still linger right at the tip of her tongue, waiting.

It takes some time for her to realize that she has no idea what she's so afraid of.

Kain waits several beats under her glare before he loses patience. "Fine. Another game it is." He pulls his wrist from her grasp. "Go if you wish, Lightning."

Swallowing, Lightning hates that she feels almost nervous. As if showing him and having him see would mean that it's all true. That there's nothing ahead of her but slavery; _slavery and violence, poison and panic…_

"Okay, you want to see? Then look." Lightning sneers because she can't help it. But she drops her hand anyway. "This – Raines – should have killed me, Kain. I shrugged it off like it was nothing."

Kain seems more or less indifferent to the venom in her voice. It's only when he pushes the fabric away, takes note of the depth of the scar, its vicious, saw-toothed length, that his expression darkens. "That's when you saw it then?" he asks but it isn't a question. "What you were speaking of?"

"Yes." She turns away from the sudden, searching clarity in his stare. "And afterwards too." She pauses, whispers. "And now."

Lightning shudders. She doesn't want to be confessing like this. He's injured and she's still so damn angry at him and this is _not _who she is. But she talks anyway; she talks because the silence hurts her ears, and she can't tell what she wants to do more: punch something or run out the door to find a nice safe patch of darkness to hide in. "I don't know, Kain._ It – ._"

"Lightning," Kain starts. "Stop – "

Kain's words don't even slow her down. "It's such bullshit, it's comical. I'm screwed either way," she says. "Demon or, or… I didn't even want to tell you. If it weren't for Yuna I – But I promise you this Highwind, if this isn't some shock-induced nightmare, and I end up back there, on my knees, I swear…"

It's not an interruption per se. Frankly, by the time Lightning realizes Kain's placed his twisted hand on the curve of her neck, she's run out of things to say. It's all just inarticulate anger. A nonsense feelingbetween fury and terror; something words can't cage.

A rough finger traces a tendon in her neck from ear to collar. Her heartbeat pulses against his skin.

"You'll what?" he asks finally. She's been doing all the talking, but it's his voice that sounds a bit raw. "Surrender? Meekly lay down arms?" He laughs, low and thready, but warmer than she remembered. "That's not your way. Although – " the finger, still stiff with Death finds a strand of hair to linger in – "a being more stubborn than you would be unpleasant indeed."

"_Stop it._" Lightning snaps at him even though she doesn't mean to. "You've got no idea what it's like _– _"

"I don't?" This time it is an interruption, and all the pleasant warmth in his voice is gone. "What would you wager on that? But very well, then. You're fond of saying you are not like me. That should give you comfort."

"For – " Lightning rubs her head. She'd forgotten how deeply frustrating talking to Kain could be. "What do you even mean?"

"My points are often lonely without you." She hates it when he speaks so softly. Mostly because it's so effective in cutting her off. "No monsters reside in you. No slaves." His crippled fingers make an attempt to cup her face and can't. Frustrated with it, he simply lets it fall. "There's another way, you'll find it."

It takes Lightning a second to catch the admission in what Kain's saying. It's not the first time he's told her that, but she thinks maybe it's the first time she's ever heard it; the first time she's really understood.

She stares at him, and there's a challenge in his eyes. Unanswered, it breaches the heavy amber dark.

_What did you do?_ The question comes to mind unbidden. _So you__ hate yourself so much? _

Lightning supposes that he'd rather be drawn and quartered before telling her, but then decides it doesn't matter. Whatever it is, she doesn't care right now. It makes no difference, either way.

He's a blind, stupid, dangerous ass, but he's here. _There's still time. _For what, she doesn't know. To figure it out, maybe. _Or maybe - __  
><em>

She lets out the breath that's holding together the knot in her chest. "Yeah," she says. "Maybe. Maybe you're right."

Kain makes a small, amused sound. "It happens, occasionally," he says, lifting his clawed hand and eyeing it with unveiled irritation. She watches him try and close it again, and anger contracts his expression. "There's no need for you to linger, Lightning. Go."

"I don't _need _to do anything." Pausing, she reaches out, lays a hand on his shoulder. His skin's warm now, almost flushed, and reflexively she finds herself pushing stiff strands of filthy hair to the side. Softly. Too softly. "Just making sure you don't do anything stupid." Her voice drops. "Someone should."

"Really? I'm honored." Turning his head on the pillow, his lip curls in a half-hidden sneer. She can tell his pride's kicked in, that he's suddenly embarrassed at his own weakness. "It's been some time since I've had a wet nurse."

Ordinarily, Lightning couldn't care less about Kain's obvious, cowardly barbs. She either shrugs them off or parries them or holds on to them so she can throw them back in his face later. But this time, she doesn't know why, it pisses her the hell off.

She spills her guts, and he's still hiding. And while every instinct she's got tells her to just get up right now, walk away, it dawns on her for the first time that she doesn't want to. She's just so tired of this. The fighting, the blocking, the endless walls.

Just once, she wants to feel quiet_._ She wants –

"Can you not be an ass for _five minutes_." The hand on his shoulder clenches so hard it trembles. _"_What's the matter with you?"

Turning back to her, Kain seems genuinely taken aback by her response. "Beg pardon?"

"We thought you were…_I _thought…That stunt you pulled so you could go out in some martyred blaze of glory – and you can't just _not_ be an asshole?"

Kain blinks. "What? Lig – "

"You have any idea what it was like watching that?" She's digging her nails into his skin now, but she couldn't care less. _Let him feel it._ "And I've been sitting here this whole time and you're still acting like this? What's _wrong _with you? Are you really that much of a – "

Lightning doesn't expect that he's got enough strength to sit up. She certainly doesn't expect that when he does, he'll be fast enough to grab her as she gives up and tries to walk away; to pull her to the bed so her back's flush to his chest. But he does and he is, and before she can decide whether to break a few more of his ribs, he's whispering something to her.

"I'm sorry." The words come out graveled and coarse, almost hesitant. "It wasn't intended – I'd not thought – " Looping that same, stiff right arm around her waist, he tries to pins her. "Forgive me."

She's conscious that she's still pushing at him while he's speaking. What she isn't conscious of – not until later – is that she's also just shaking. Under the weight of everything that's happened, all the things that either terrify or disgust her or make her want to unload Enkindler into any target she can find, her nerves finally revolt and she's back in the desert again. Trembling. Out of control.

_Shit. _She grits her teeth, wishes everything were different._ Shit. __**Shit.**_

"It was kind of you to stay with me," he whispers, and the warmth of his breath catches in the hollow of her neck. The words both soothe her skin and scratch it. "I should not have spoken so coarsely."

Lightning doesn't answer, but she's suddenly aware that somewhere along the way, the forearm he was using to restrain her has relaxed. He's just holding her now, and he's running his good left hand up and down her upper arm – gently, firmly – trying to press the tremors away.

It doesn't get her all the way there. But it comes close.

"I don't want your apologies, Kain." She lets her hand drift down to cover his. Her eyes squeeze shut. "Just - Stop_ being - _Just give it a rest, okay."

The answer doesn't come right away. Slowly, he bows his head into the space between jaw and collar, presses his lips to the shell of her ear and breathes.

It's neither a kiss nor a caress. It's something different. Something in between. And it quivers over her nerves, just waiting.

"Very well," he mutters finally. "Very well. But be advised – " he shifts to whisper the rest to her hair and the grip on her upper arm tightens " – I expect a similar courtesy, Claire."

Tensing at the peculiar intimacy in her name, Lightning's about to react with something sharp. The words are poised on her tongue, but – surprising herself, mostly – just as she's about to snap them at him, the tension in her stomach uncoils, and what comes out of her mouth is a small, jumpy breath.

Almost a laugh. _Not quite_.

Shifting in his arms, she turns. Lets her brow come to rest on the top of his head. "Whatever." Awkwardly, she reaches back so her hand comes to rest at his jaw. "Fine. Fine by me."

They stay like that for a long time, unmoving. From outside the window, the Phantom Village watches, static and ill, indifferent as ever to the coming of the morning.

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER: <strong>Festering truths are finally revealed when Cid of the Lufaine makes a surprise appearance at the Phantom Village. Meanwhile, as Raines and his minions march to the gates of the Last Floor, the party finds hope in unexpected places.


	14. CX: When the Devil Dreams of Freedom

Door of Souls, Chapter 10: When the Devil Dreams of Freedom 

**Beta:** Flying solo for a while. Meaning that I'd be supes grateful if you pointed out anything I can fix. Anything at all. I am not sentimental.  
><strong>Warning:<strong> I still like violence and meta, sprinkled with sex.  
><strong>UpdateInfo:** Did a scene-by-scene outline until the end. This is done in 5 chapters + an epi. Hence the delay. Also, there are three explicative A/Ns at the end for those who did not 100% XIII or XIII-2, or want to know my Gold Saucer preferences ;p.  
><strong>No, really, thanks:<strong> I never imagined when I started writing this I'd get such dedicated and intelligent readers for epic!angst-plosion. I'm honored. Really, thank you for your time.  
><strong>Rec:<strong> Please go read "Empty Vessels" by saltedpin. It is stunning.

* * *

><p>"<em>Things keep overlapping and blur, your story is part of your sister's story is part of many other stories, and there's no telling where any of them may lead. Good and evil are a great deal more complex than a princess and a dragon, or a wolf and a scarlet-clad little girl. And is not the dragon the hero of his own story? Is not the wolf simply acting as a wolf should act?<em> _Though perhaps it is a singular wolf who goes to such lengths as to dress as a grandmother to toy with its prey."_

― Erin Morgenstern_, The Night Circus_

* * *

><p>It is with limited emotion that Cid Raines hovers in the slimy yellow sky above the Phantom Village and watches.<p>

He picks out random, irrelevant detail; thinks random, irrelevant thoughts. He does so in no special order.

A set of red rooftops, sagging.  
><em>Undying may not pass here. But in some numbers, lesser monsters may break through.<em>

The city streets intersect at inane angles, lines in a blank verse poem.  
><em>Barthandelus is late. He should have returned by now.<em>

The borders of the Fracturing Forest shift like silver clouds unthreading.  
><em>Shinryu's Protection is weakest on the western flank. The hoard should be directed there<em>.

Crystal Cie'th still bleed. Their blood is black, not red.  
><em>This would not necessary. Had they surrendered their crystals, they would be cleanly dead, and this would not be necessary.<em>

Raines breathes, crosses his arms, regrets to the extent he can. That path is closed to them now. Only war remains.

Beating his wings, Raines climbs higher into the atmosphere; so high that the boiling mass of grey and crystal flesh that surges against the Protection is the parting of a brook around a stone. At such distances, one might be permitted to imagine that what's happening below is nothing, really. The breath of winter over a city already long dead.

He supposes it's a matter of perspective, in the end. A battle below is nothing more than a glimmer of light above, something to catch the eye and no more. Although he expects that those trapped inside the Village may think differently. It has been weeks, after all, of this.

Higher and higher Raines flies, but his trajectory does not take him far from what he is fleeing. His thoughts stay with him, and they are, once again, of Tifa Lockhart and Tifa Lockhart's mercy. Though he wants nothing of it, his mind falls back to her, her pleading like gravity.

"_Please, Cid. Please. You don't have to do this._"

_Brigadier General Cid Raines_. Testing the title in his mind, he tries to conjure the feeling of pride it once filled him with. The scent of the Lindblum's engine room, the taste of carbon, the sound of Rygdea's voice: firm, ready to stand and die on command. _My command_.

He lived, Raines knows. The others, mostly, did not.

"_Behind you to a man, sir."_

_Who said that? _On his way up, Raines tastes the wet of stagnant air, and doesn't remember anymore.

Whoever it was, he had no magic and no chance. Well before Lightning Farron, the Cavalry fought and died casting their lot against the fal'Cie. No fool Goddess spared them their fate, though they had families too. Lovers, children, reasons to live and to die.

_Such loyalty._ Raines surges now, and his wings are razors to slit the throat of the sky. _Such loyalty betrayed. _And perhaps somewhere below him now these very men shamble, ripped from Eden by Lindzei's hand, infected by the Lufenian's parlor tricks. Perhaps they chew scabs from their lips, perhaps half formed fingers claw from empty eye sockets, reaching.

It seems to Raines his velocity demands additional sky. For all his grasping at it in the moment of his rebirth, he does not know whether now – if given the chance to replay that moment – he would not have shoved his name back into Tifa Lockhart's mako-poisoned mouth.

He should have broken her jaw with it, he thinks sometimes. But other times, he thinks not. He's not sure. All he's sure of is that he would prefer, if it were possible, to have more room to fly.

"_**Stainless One.**__"_

It is something between singing and strangulation, the way Her voice twists in his mind. In congress with Hallowed Pulse somewhere in the Void Beyond, She is distant from here, but even so – _even still _– the words lock his muscles. They knock him out of flight.

Raines cannot tell exactly when his motion changes from flying to falling. In the part of his mind that is not filled with Her voice, there is only blurry smear of amber, the chill of condensation as he breaks through rung after rung of softly petrified clouds.

Of course, there is no fear.

Cid Raines did not fear.

"_**It was a gift, this what you call yourself.  
><strong>__**Do you spurn it?"**_

By the time She speaks again, Raines has managed to right himself. Spreading his wings as wide as they will go, he corkscrews, catches the Aeroga that falls from his fingers and glides.

Her voice bursts certain capillaries behind his eyes. He is sure his nose is bleeding, but that is immaterial. He will answer – he must answer – all the same.

Bringing his gauntlet to his face, Raines wipes away mucosal ribbons of crimson. They taste salty, sticky, sweet. They leave lurid streaks of claret on the gleam.

"No," he replies and it is the truth. Lindzei has suffered the return of his memories because She – as far beyond them as She is – has no capacity to understand the significance of a human name. Perhaps he does not understand so well either, anymore.

But in light of Her words, a decision snaps in place.

He will keep it, he thinks. He wants to keep it.

"_**Hallowed Pulse has read the signs. Bhunivelze's day rises only to fall.  
><strong>__**The cause is joined. Tribute is offered."**_

Raines understands all too clearly who is being summoned here to his command. When She speaks to him, She chains Her voice in human words, but even if She did not – even if She were to tear his mind to shreds with Her native tongue – there can be no doubt. There is only one answer.

The gods of Nova Crystallis view as relevant four humans and four humans alone. Himself. Lightning Farron. Caius Ballad. _And – _

Beside him, yellow twilight peels away in ribbons of electric black. Tingling antimatter bubbles the air, leaves the carbonated fizz of ozone on his tongue.

"Vercingetorix." Raines does not turn to face the only other being who could fly with him here in this windless world. "Well met."

In reply, there is the rabid flapping of mothwings: a vast, urine-scented howl.

"_**Go now, sons of mortals. Lay low this place and drive her from it.  
><strong>__**The Last Floor waits. "**_

This last command is uttered with such force that Raines is sent careening through the sky once more, this time with more visceral force. Some unseen hand knocks his body through a perfect parabolic curve. His motion ideal, there is no resistance to his rise and fall.

The wind does not fight him. Neither does his mind.

She is gone but Raines does not open his wings. He grants dominion to the act of descent. _It matters not_. If he were to land among them, and the things that might once have been his men rend his flesh from his bones, what would be the loss? She will remake him. She will break and reform him as always, as ever, as every time before.

Raines think on clay in the hands of children, and does not perceive men to be so different in the hands of whatever power they kneel to.

The clattering impact of steel hitting the armored scabs of Vercingetorix's flesh sends Raines back to his senses. Eyes that were closed break open, and as the Doomherald of Paddra catches and then throws him back into flight, he rights himself and then turns to look at the creature for the first time.

Vercingetorix inclines his head in greeting, and the finger shaped appendages that have grown over and into his eyes bend at the knuckles and squeeze.

A part of Raines wishes that he could still find this disgusting. But all he can think as he hovers here is that the gold and red warts that corrode Vercingetorix's wings are almost beautiful, in their way. Rot as a stained-glass window, jewel-toned and bright.

"_You are Cid Raines and we have a task, we share a task." _Sticky flesh congealed over Vercingtorix's mouth centuries ago, so Raines doesn't know where this voice comes from. _"It is ours, Cid Raines, mine and yours and mine, mine, mine."_

Raines hand comes to rest on the hilt of his sword. "I'm aware."

"_He is God and Pulse and he is afraid of the hot thing beyond the father's death._" Cid can never keep track of how many wings Vercingetorix has. They appear to sprout and decay without reason. _"I am Undying and not dying and He is scared of the hot thing that will burn it all, the trees and the grass and rain."_

Raines tightens his grip on his blade, wonders why Vercingetorix spouts news he already knows. That Valhalla's rise presages Bhunivelze's doom is the single most important thing Lindzei has ever allowed him to know. It is the very reason for his being here, now. Why Pulse and Lindzei came here to the Rift, so many thousand years ago…

"So?"

Vercingetorix's rotting wings flutter in confessional anticipation. He disregards Raines almost entirely.

"_The hot thing, They do not like it," _he continues._ "It consumes all of them, the gods of you and me. He thinks I will stop it and maybe I will; maybe I will with you Cid Raines but maybe I will not." _Almost gleefully, the digits in Vercingetorix's eyes twist in deeper. "_I like it that He is afraid, whose fal'Cie killed us all and made us this." _

"Prefer what you will." Raines feels his lips curl. "There is no choice in this matter."

"_No choice for you, Cid Raines._" Flapping all six wings at once, Vercingetorix pivots a full 360 degrees in mid-air. _ "Cid Raines the pretty pretty, but who does not choose and is a slave in his soul, a dead and dying dirty slave."_

Before Raines is conscious he has drawn it, his sword is out of its sheathe and pointed at the boiling crater in Vercingetorix's chest. He narrows his eyes, glares, does not look at the swollen maggots that nose the tip of the steel, curious.

He says nothing. He views the challenge as implied.

"_Pretty Raines."_ With boneless grace, Vercingetorix twists his body around the blade before sidling to Raines' side unharmed. He nuzzles what remains of his face against an alabaster cheek. A wing razors over the flank of his cuirass, cuts a thin and effortless groove through enchanted steel.

"_Pretty, pretty,"_ Vercingetorix spits._ "Do you think I am afraid of you, do you think I am fal'Cie? I am more than you and they together together, I left nations bleeding at my feet and you are nothing, dirty, pretty slave."_

Suddenly vicious, the wing slides through a joint in his armor and screws a hole between his ribs. The pain bites, and Raines has barely spun away before Vercingetorix is laughing.

"_You think I fear you, do you Cid Raines? You think I fear of anything, pretty, stupid, slave?"_

Revolted, Raines almost sneers. He should have known better than to draw on one of Hallowed Pulse's Undying. Least of all, this one. To keep himself from ramming his blade through Vercingetorix's rotting skull, Raines reminds himself that the Eastern Tors of the Archylte Steppe is littered with singing Cie'th stones – nameless as his own soldiers – for whom this man once fought.

_Vercingetorix. _The first of them all to take arms against the fal'Cie; to rage against a genocide propagated by one useless Focus after another. He'd been a hero once. He is this, now.

Raines' lips twitch. _How far fell, Doomherald of Paddra? _

Breathing deep, Raines thinks about how many times Caius Ballad killed this man, how many times it took him before he realized that they shared a taste for blasphemy. Perhaps it was over Paddra's burning ruin; or staring into that witless seer-child's fixed and dilated pupils a thousand times and more.

The memory of rage stirs somewhere in the cold of Raines' stomach. _Obsession. Rebellion_. _Servitude._ For Caius and Vercingetorix; for him and Lightning Farron, these are the spoils of rebellion. These and these alone.

_Pathetic._ He sends the thought to Tifa Lockhart. A response to an argument they are not really having.

"Vercingetorix. Believe me when I say I do not care if you fear me or if you do not." Raines' anger settles back into the smooth indifference of hatred. He sheathes his weapon. "Either way, You are still lent to me. We have work to do."

"_Hallowed Pulse does not own me and you do not own me and we will bow only to who we bow and that is no-one." _Vercingetorix preens. _ "Kill is what I was asked, kill Lightning Farron, and maybe I will do so but it will not be enough. It will not stop the hot thing, the star in the mirror will not be stopped." _

"Will you assist me or not?" Raines has had enough. If Barthandelus has not been able to find Her final minion, then he must do so himself. And that is not a task he can accomplish from here. "You heard Her. The barricade must come down. You can speak to the Lufenian's infected Cie'th as I can."

"_I am Undying and you are Undying and this Village is not for us to trespass." _Vercingetorix flaps higher first, then lets himself drop._ "But I will do this thing for you Cid Raines, I will. For now, I will do this thing and we will see if we can break it with the rotten ones." _

"Do what you can."

Hissing, Vercingetorix brings his needle-thin legs to his chest and flips backwards before fluttering down to join the monsters that mill at the gate of the Phantom Village.

"_I will see, you will see, Cid Raines, what I can do._" The words cut back over the stagnant air._ "We have a task, we share a task, do we not Cid Raines?"_

In the wake of Vercingentorix's descent, Raines resists the urge offer reply. Perhaps once they'd shared a dream. But no longer. The time for dreaming is done.

Distorted and jubilant, the sound of the Cie'th make when Vercingetorix joins them reminds Raines of the rising cheer of an army. Vaguely, he wonders if there's enough of their minds left for this to be true, or whether he's hearing things.

"_Behind you to a man, Sir."_

For a moment, Raines beats his wings and considers. Looking down at the scene below him, the monsters that churn in decaying orbit around a city of impossible stillness, he eventually decides that he is.

Shaking his head, Raines propels himself up through the atmosphere. He leaves the Phantom Village to its fate.

* * *

><p>When asked if she wants babies, Yuna's never hesitated on the answer, even once.<p>

_Yes. Absolutely._

Now, she never thought she'd live long enough to have them, but it didn't matter. _Children help you see wonder in the world_, she'd always thought. With few exceptions, their big eyes and sticky fingers and quick laughter make her feel better about the world. Tempter tantrums aside, Yuna likes that they can look at drab, grown-up things and see magic.

Every rainbow gets a pot of gold. Every lost tooth, a fairy. Morals, too, for every sad story.

Before today, the temper-tantrum to nice things trade-off had never seemed so bad. Of course, before today, she'd never actually seen what a real, Lightning-Farron-sized temper tantrum looked like.

Struggling to press a wet cloth into the black and red mess of Lightning's brand, Yuna sighs, flinches at the thought of what she must have been like as a little girl. Inwardly, she wonders if she might have to reconsider her position.

"Light," she says, trying and failing to keep the frustration from creeping into her voice. "_Please _relax. This will only take a minute or two."

Tensing beneath Yuna's fluttering fingers, Lightning glares. _Again. _"You said that two minutes ago," she seethes, squirming in the overstuffed armchair in Aerith's quarters. "And yesterday. When it took _two hours._" Batting the cloth away sharply, she snarls,"I'm not a science experiment."

"Nobody said you were, Lightning." Aerith replies smoothly. Kneeling on the other side of the chair across from Yuna, she's holding Lightning's wrist and taking her pulse with blithe disregard for the storm brewing on her face. "And this would go a lot quicker if you'd just hold still."

"I've been _still – _" Lightning grinds the words in her teeth " – for two damn weeks. I swear if Minwu pokes me one more time, I'm punching him in his holy face."

"Light," Tifa chides from across the room. Leaning against the wall behind Aerith, she's cradling what looks like the oldest moogle doll in the Rift loosely in her arms. "Don't you think you're overreacting just a teeny, tiny bit?"

"Lockhart, you traitor." The eyes Lightning nails her with are frost-tipped points of rage. "You said we were going to get a drink."

"Oh, it's not so bad." Tifa's expression flashes mischief. Holding out the toy, she grins a bright, wide-open grin. "You want to hold Mog for a few minutes, maybe? Might make you feel better."

"No," Lightning growls, and Aerith takes advantage of her infuriated distraction to yank her zipper down the last few inches Yuna needs. Beneath studiously downcast lashes, Yuna thinks she catches a wink. "I do _not_ want to hold Mog. Where'd you even get that thing? It looks diseased."

"_Hey._" Tifa retorts, and the smile twists to a smirk. "Didn't you once say – and I _quote_ – 'they're cute little bastards?'"

Pausing to lay the cloth down on chair-back, Yuna stifles a giggle. "Really, Light?"

Warmth creeps into Lightning's skin, Yuna can feel it. She's getting whiter and whiter these days, and other than her brand, more and more strangely perfect, but she can still flush, apparently, at least a little.

_Good._

"So what?" Lightning mutters, the tension in her body cut by sudden embarrassment. "They are cute little bastards. But _that_ thing – "

"Oh, he's just old. Give him a break," Tifa interrupts, folding the doll under her chin protectively, the way a child would. "Cloud won him at the Gold Saucer, way back when." Smiling, she adds. "Hey Aerith – remember all those times Yuffie nicked this little guy?"

Aerith doesn't turn around. "Yeah."

"She called it the 'Great Mog Plot'," Tifa explains to no-one in particular. "She used to give those little speeches – " straightening, she clears her throat " – 'I am _Yuffie_ Kisa – "

"Stop, Tifa." Whatever Tifa wants to remember, Aerith obviously doesn't. "Not now."

The words seem to cut Tifa's strings, and Yuna watches both her posture and the light in her gaze slump. The room stays tight-lipped for a second as she turns and puts the doll back on Aerith's dresser, carefully arranging it between bunches of dried flowers. She stays turned around so nobody can see her face.

Puffing a soft breath through her parted lips, Yuna uses the lull to go back to examining the progress of Lightning's brand. Its teeth have started sliding down her breast again, chewing a plantar-wart groove in her flesh. The eye in the middle's not weeping pus yet, but the wound is soft and raw and red, like she could push her finger straight through it…

_Cie'th skin_, Yuna knows because small numbers of them have been crawling through the Protection for a while now. Because if she looks out the window she can see one of the tiny-moth ones crushing itself up against the Wayfarer's Circle, too sad and dumb to know when to stop.

"Spoilsport." It's Tifa who steps into the silence first, idly flicking one of the doll's floppy ears. It doesn't stay up, and Yuna feels almost sad for it, whimsical and old and out of place as it is. Turning, she folds her arms over her chest awkwardly. "It was just a joke."

"I know." Aerith's words crowd Tifa's – she's talking right over her. "I know, Missy. It's just…not now." Letting out a quick breath, she turns, addresses Yuna. "You ready? You lead, I'll boost. If we do it together, you should be able to see more."

"More than _what_?" Lightning interjects. Even though she's been quiet for a while, Yuna can tell she's still seething. "More that what you've seen the _last _fifteen times you cast Libra on it?"

A reply catches in Yuna's throat. Looking down at her friend, she can see the weariness that's begun to creep into Lightning's expression. Her eyes are savage with sleep-deprivation, and the little lines around her lips are slim and tight, the cracks in bone china.

"Light…" she says, "think of it this way. If it's stable enough, maybe you can go out for a bit, right? Maybe…"

"There are things we absolutely need to check, Lightning." Aerith jumps into the space at the end of Yuna's sentence, undeterred by Lightning's predatory scowling. "But I'll make you a deal."

Lightning glowers. "What?"

"You stop being such a baby." Sweetly, Aerith inclines her head. "And we'll go as fast as we can."

Yuna watches Lightning send a look past Aerith straight at Tifa, the words _'I am going to murder your friend' _painted clear as day on her expression.

For her part, Tifa only holds up her hands in mock surrender and silently mouths, "_She's lost it. I'll get you that drink. Promise."_

If Aerith catches any of the exchange, she ignores it completely. It's not for her. Holding out her hand, she asks, "Ready?"

Taking the offered hand, Yuna looks away from the other girls and nods. "Ready."

The magic that slips in through her skin is forest-scented and cold. Like music, it fills the spaces in her thoughts, guides her hand as it weaves lazy figure eights in the air. And when Libra spreads wide through Yuna's senses, she would swear that she almost hears it – the Fayth, singing quietly, the way they did in Spira not so very long ago.

What Yuna asks for, the spell shows her: it fills her mind with understanding she barely has words for; with the universe inside Lightning Farron. Here is the net of her circulation, pale and diaphanous and a little wrong. There, between her cells, is a hyperactive signaling cascade that clots her blood faster than it should. And everywhere else, little hints: changes in bones and capillaries and glands that tell Yuna that her friend changing. Not Eidolan yet_. _But getting there. Getting close.

Of course, she's still poisoned. No matter what Lightning is now, that hasn't changed. The living crystal – _like the manikins_, she can't help but think – at the heart of her brand is everywhere. Coagulating on her brain stem, encrusting her central nervous system, drifting in her DNA. It's ready to yank Lightning one way or the other, depending on whether she listens to it.

"Crystal stasis, if she's good_." _The half sentient thing inside her seems to be taunting Yuna as she goes. _"_But only if_…"_

Stifling a shudder, Yuna can't believe she didn't see this before, the first time they helped Lightning control her brand. But they were so focused on helping her use Cosmos' crystal to shut off the emotions that were feeding it, she supposes she didn't have time to see what the poison actually was, how it actually worked. That it was alive, aware, filled with hate.

_Well? _Exactingly impatient, Aerith's voice slides through the pale haze in Yuna's mind.

_It's bad._ She sends the thought back with a host of images. She doesn't want to explain. _She won't be able to hold this in place much longer, I don't think._

_I see now, _she replies, almost wonderingly. _It's deeper than before. She's not upset enough to trigger it, but still…_

_Can we help her bind it again? _Yuna asks.

_I don't know. Maybe. _Aerith's thoughts are measured. _But who knows if the stress of it won't push her over. We just need to keep her calm. Buy Minwu some time to figure this out._

_You see the other things happening to her, too,_ _right? _Yuna doesn't really want to bring it up, but she feels like she has to. _She's changing so quickly now – _

_I know_. A beat passes, soft as spring. _So does she. Come back now. We've got what we need. Let's just tell her._

Taking a moment, Yuna sighs inwardly before unweaving the spell. _I wish we didn't have to. She's going to be so scared._

_We're all scared, Yuna. _By the time Yuna hears the reply, Aerith's magic's already leaving – no – it's already gone. _All of us. _

It always takes Yuna a few moments to blink a spell like Libra out of her mind. Returning from swimming pink to a world of light and color is dizzying and strange, and by the time her eyes and ears adjust, the explanations have already begun, and the expression on Lightning's bloodless face is too blank for Yuna to look at for long.

"But – " It's Tifa speaking, and she sounds confused "What does that even mean? I thought…I thought you bound it."

"It means we've got to be really, really careful." Pausing to speak to Lightning, the sharp green in her eyes bore holes in the morning. "It's getting worse."

"I'm sorry, Light." Yuna has tries to put a hand on her shoulder, but Lightning shrugs it off. "I thought maybe – "

"You're going to have to stay inside, Lightning." Aerith gets straight to the point. "We need to keep you as calm as possible. It's really important that – "

Disgusted, Lightning sneers. "Bullshit, Aerith."

"Pardon?"

"I said – " Lightning's voice is low and cold " – _Bullshit. _I had this exact same problem back home and fought straight though it. There's no difference. Stop trying to fear-monger me."

Folding her arms, Aerith doesn't flinch at the accusation, and Yuna feels the air go out of the room. Tifa just blinks, waiting.

"I understand you're angry," Aerith says eventually. "It makes sense that you're angry. But this _is _different, and I'll tell you why. You're changing Lightning. The brand isn't warping something human, anymore – "

"C'mon Aerith," Tifa cuts in, suddenly concerned. "Just wait a second. Don't you think you're being – "

Aerith rounds on her without saying a word. She doesn't have to. The narrowing of her small eyes, the clenching of her small fist, is everything she needs to say.

Tifa stares right back. "Aerith – "

"Let her talk, Tifa, please," Yuna pleads. She's doesn't think Aerith's being nice either, _but…_ "This is something Lightning needs to hear. We all need to hear it, I think."

"Thanks, Yuna." Aerith turns back to Lightning, and even though her words are harsh, her voice is softer than before. "The truth is that you're different now. More powerful than any other l'Cie from your world. If this thing changes you now, there's no telling what kind of monster you'll turn into." She stops, gathers her breath. "This is very dangerous Lightning. You are very dangerous."

"I've already spoken to Laguna." Lightning's not deterred one bit. "If that happens, he's – "

"But Light." The words are out of Yuna's mouth before she can stop them. She knows Aerith would've kept explaining, but she feels like she has to be the one to say this. That Lightning's only going to be able to hear it from her. "Don't you know that doesn't matter? The Cie'th – the Cie'th are the way they are because the poison keeps working. After the cells die, after _you_ die, it keeps…"

Tifa holds her hand to her mouth and blinks. "Oh," is all she says.

"Forgive me." Yuna almost jumps out of her skin at the sound of Kain's voice from the doorway. "Am I interrupting something?"

Blinking hard, Yuna turns away from Lightning and straightens her kimono, even though she knows it's not rumpled. She should have heard him coming. Because the Phantom Village is stocked with all kinds of things from their homeworlds, he's taken to wearing a full suit of plate mail again, and it's noisy enough that she ought to have noticed it. She didn't though, and as he leans in the doorframe, the dragon helm crawls over his face like any other shadow.

He looks exactly the way he did in Dissidia. The only thing that's missing is Gungir. It's lost and broken, somewhere in the Rift. And the spear that's taken its place on his shoulder seems too skinny, too long, too sharp.

Yuna breathes over a sigh. It twists something inside her, to see him locked up in all that steel again. But as jarring as the armor might be to her, it's not as bad as the Cie'th blood that's dried all over his clawed right hand, all over the guige of that new spear, _all over – _

Her eyes swing back and forth between Lightning and blackened splatter on Kain's cuirass, and niggling claustrophobia presses in the hollow at her throat.

"No, Sir Kain." She recovers as quickly as she can, offering him a quick smile and a shallow bow. "Not at all. We were just – "

"It's nothing, Highwind," Lightning interrupts. Cold, blue and haunted, her eyes claw at his mask. "We're done here. I'm done here."

Almost imperceptibly, the dragon helm inclines towards them. "Then it's fair enough timing." The words slide from between stained lips. "Vaan and Laguna are late from patrol and I'd be glad of a second for search." Turning to Lightning, he continues, "Would you care to – "

"She can't." Yuna's surprised that she and Aerith speak at exactly the same time, but then realizes she shouldn't be. "It's just I – " she continues on her own, " – I think she's got to stay here, for now." She doesn't quite know who she's talking to when she speaks next. "I'm sorry."

"And frankly, Sir Stubborn," Aerith adds, arching a brow, "_you_ shouldn't be out there either. Your hand's still a complete mess. And you realize you're not fully recovered, right?"

A muscle tenses in Kain's jaw, and Yuna catches it for only a second before it's gone, resolving into a courtly, painted-on smile. "I assure you, milady," he says, languid, "I'll be fine." Addressing Lightning directly again, he ventures a little more softly, "But is there something? If you'd prefer, on my return, I might – "

"I could go," Tifa offers, interrupting him. Blushing slightly, she doesn't quite know where to put her eyes. "By myself, I mean. If you two…" she trails off, leaves the suggestion twisting by itself in the still, yellow air.

"No." This time there's nobody to answer on Lightning's behalf, and there's a raw, low cold in her voice that makes Yuna flinch. "_No. _And who the hell even asked you, Highwind? I don't need – I don't _want _your help." She stops, clenches her fists in her lap. "Get out. I'll be fine. Go do your thing."

The nod he offers her is stiff, contemptuous, hurt. The stained lips pull to one side. "With pleasure."

His armor clinks as he pushes off the doorframe. Yuna wonders if she's the only one who notices how loud it is.

Walking around the chair, Aerith shakes her head, changes the subject. Joining Kain as he turns away, she hooks her arm mildly in his and gestures forward to the first Mage's study.

"Alright," she exhales, shaking her head, "I think we're done with this. If you're going to insist on going out there Kain, come with me. Minwu's at the barricade and he's asked for a few tomes." Her voice lightens as she guides him out. "You've just volunteered to deliver them."

It takes a little while for their footsteps to dissolve down the hall, but by the time they do Tifa's forded her way back to the chair. She doesn't say anything, though. She just blinks, waits.

"What?" Lightning asks, challenging the silence. "_What_?"

"Nothing." Tifa replies. She tries to put her hand out, but Lightning's glare holds the gesture in place. "But I thought…I mean…I just thought you guys were trying to be nice to each other. That maybe you'd feel like – I'm sorry." She flushes. "I didn't mean to embarrass any– "

"You didn't. " Lightning keeps her eyes fixed on the open window. A bunch more Cie'th moths have congregated there now, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's staring past them. She's looking for something else.

"Light – " Yuna tries to catch her eyes, but Lightning shuts them.

"Just leave me alone, both of you, please. I – " Raising her balled fist, Lightning unfurls her fingers, one by one. "I need to think."

"But, " Tifa starts, "We're only trying to – "

"_Please._" Lightning's trying to be polite, but it's not working. "Just go."

Sharing a soft glance with Tifa, Yuna only nods. She'd like to think that there's something else she can do here, but she knows that there isn't. That she's gone as far as Lightning's going to let her go. And so, quietly as ever, she does the only thing she can. She collects Tifa by the arm, and she turns around and leaves. She makes sure to close the door behind her.

* * *

><p>Standing alone at the border of the Phantom Village, Minwu presses the tips of his fingers to Shinryu's barricade and sighs.<p>

Inches away, the monsters churn. He can't tell one from the other, really: in the space between rippling grey and sea-spray crystal, the exact place at which a moth-form collapses into a vampire-from is blurry, indeterminate. It could be that the clutching arms and legs are attached to bodies, but then again, it's possible they're not.

It's possible that they're simply seizing – detached and of their own accord – some random place in the boil.

Minwu lets his hand drop loosely to his side. He's long believed a time would come when this magic would be tested. He's long believed that the sins that were committed here would one day swim upstream to swarm the place that they were spawned.

It was not a matter of probability. Only of timing.

"_Do not believe this place inviolable, Cid."_ Minwu's lost track of the number of he repeated these words. "_Lindzei must know we are stealing from Her l'Cie."_

"_Nothing ventured, nothing gained." _The Lufenian had answered with playful indifference, the same way he responded to everything Minwu said. _"Discovery favors daring."_

Shaking his head, Minwu watches the monsters surge and break against the barricade, inhales deeply of the stink of dead flesh as it hits the magic and sizzles. The smell is disgusting, but he forces it into his lungs. He makes himself taste it.

_Now is the time_, Minwu recognizes it plainly. It is either he can catch the balls he has thrown into the air, or he cannot. In the end, it is as simple as that.

It's the mirror of Atropos that vexes him, and vexes him badly. All it appears to do is show a kaleidoscope of alternate possibilities. In its glass, he can skip from one dimension to another, follow lines of probability to their ultimate conclusion and then watch as they collapse upon themselves, ultimately recursive. But it gives him nothing more than that. Only timelines, knotted and snarled. He cannot tease them apart. He cannot figure out how to use any of it to set Lightning Farron free.

_Not free, _Minwu corrects sternly. He must at be honest, at least with himself.

Still, he knows there is something he must be missing. He has seen timelines where she died human, where she and her sister were never made l'Cie. He has seen her prophesied fate. He has even seen versions of her scattered throughout all thirteen spheres – _paladin, mercenary, dancing girl, thief_ – but all of these are only pictures. Shadows on the wall of a cave.

And time is running out. Time, which until now, Minwu seemed to have such an excess of, is narrowing and hardening to a radical point. There is only one chance. If he fails, there will be no others.

He presses two fingers to his temple and rubs. He waits for his mind to supply an answer it simply cannot.

"Oh, come now, Minwu." It is more by the cold and less by the words that Minwu knows his appointment has finally been kept. "So glum all the time. I thought you liked puzzles."

Minwu folds his arms and does not turn. "You're late, Nero."

The sound of rusty metal scratching itself grates in Minwu's ears. "I was playing with your toys." Nero pauses and the noise of squalid flesh hitting the frozen earth is a wet _sostenuto _over the grating beats of iron wings. "They're a bit soft, you know. More crystal, next time, perhaps? Less dead flesh?"

There's no point in rising to the bait, so Minwu doesn't. He's here for one reason. It is not to trade barbs. "This fragment you gave me has no active properties," he says at last. He does not let his eyes leave the throng of demons beyond the wall. "There's nothing in it I can focus to remove Lightning's brand." Agitated, he pulls his cloak tightly about his shoulders. "Does you Mistress toy with me?"

"What? Her Providence?" The scratching finally abates, but Minwu can feel the chill of darkness crawl up his leg as Nero comes to stand by his side. "The goddess of pity? Surely, she wouldn't do such a thing."

"Nero." Minwu bows his head, feels his cowl stretch tightly over dry lips. "If you will tell me nothing, I must take my leave. I have no time to waste with you."

One of the little tendrils of darkness slithers behind Minwu's ear before tunneling inside, fleshy as a finger. "I have no time to waste with _you_, First Mage," he retorts. "Humourless pet."

Feeling his lip twitch, Minwu barely bothers with a sideways glance at Nero before pulling a cool Barrier down over his skin. Etro is no goddess of beauty, but he will never understand what possessed Her to summon this, of all creatures, to Her aid. That said, the matter is neither here nor there. If this is what he must work with, he will do so.

He's collaborated with worse.

"Enough, Nero." Sucking in a long breath, Minwu turns and manages an incline of his head. "No offence was meant."

"Then none was taken." Nero's voice is suddenly, cloyingly, jaunty as he drops to the grass and reclines there. "But now, on to business. Really though – " he stops, fidgets a moment " – I'd have thought you'd have caught on by now. "

Minwu forces himself to be patient. He focuses on the current of monsters still visible in the corner of his eyes, the way their mouths are crimson skiffs in a grim iron sea. He grinds his teeth. "To what, pray?"

"How to step through the looking glass, of course." From the tugging of the bandages on his face, Minwu assumes that Nero's smirking at him. "I assume you've seen all the possibilities.

"But that's exactly the point," Minwu retorts, frustrated. "That's all there is. Passive possibilities, riddles, reflections. Surely your Goddess knows I can do very little with this."

"She's no Goddess of mine, Minwu," Nero replies, sounding bored. "A trifle hysterical for my tastes. But still, She asks me to tell you to 'look beyond' or some other such nonsense." He stops, stretches, scratches his face with a tiny iron talon. "Your answers, I'm told, are there."

It seems suddenly clear to Minwu that both Laguna and Vaan might find the frustration he's feeling with Nero right now to be some form of justice. He supposes he agrees. "Beyond what, exactly?"

Nero utters a distorted hiss that Minwu supposes is intended to be some kind of laugh. "The end of time, First Mage." Casually, Nero extends an iron wing, watches the sick amber light splash over the metal. "What else would I be talking about?"

What Nero is saying makes almost no sense at all, but Minwu wrestles his sudden rage back in place. He requires information from this creature, so he must tread carefully. Nero the Sable is many things, sane or rational not among them. "Explain."

"Oh, how I _hate_ doing everything myself. And you've been terribly impolite." Piercing him with a hollow-eyed glance, Nero pauses for a moment, then offers him another vicious smirk. "Say _please._"

Minwu grits his teeth, swallows his pride. Behind him, the Cie'th wheeze, make the sloppy noises of ravenous things. "Please."

Nero shivers, satisfied. "So _much _better."

"Of course." Minwu smiles, breakably. "Go on."

"As you know, my dear little mage, Etro, Pulse and Lindzei are gods of a dying world," Nero explains as if he's talking to a child. "It's scrawled all over their little analects and prophecies, is it not?"

"It is," Minwu agrees. Nova Cyrstallis is an unstable world. He's seen it fall to ruin a thousand times already. "And so?"

Idly, Nero pulls a gun from its case on a slender thigh. He takes his time looking through the sight before reholstering it and going on. "So, have you thought about looking _past_ all those knotty little timelines?" he queries. "Past the 'end of time', so to speak? Her Providence seems to think that there's something there Her champion might want. A future, perhaps, she might be interested in."

Turning completely from the throng of demons at the gate, Minwu glares at him. "I've seen a thousand versions of Lightning Farron's life. The problem is, I can't – "

"Who said _you_ had to do anything, Minwu." With liquid grace, Nero rises. "Etro's champion must be one of significant will. You'll have to take her by baby steps, of course – I understand she's quite a precocious one, at the moment – but this next game of hers has an element of choice…"

The beginning of a conclusion Minwu doesn't want to come to glides through the back of his mind. _An element of choice…_"You mean what, exactly?"

"Ah, ah, wait please." Shuddering, Nero twists backwards, attends viciously to an itch on his right shoulder. "There. Much better. _Now – _" the iron wings flutter " – you were saying?"

"_Nero."_ Minwu's reached his limits. Almost without thinking, Thundara sparks in his fingertips. "Your brother's freedom is not served by taunting me. Tell me what you mean and speak plainly of it."

The bandages over Nero's face twist. And while Minwu cannot tell what exactly the expression beneath them is, he can see that its malice is pure and gleaming and true. He cocks his head and the darkness around him gyres. _Vipers_, Mimwu thinks, _at the snake charmer's hand. _

Nero's cat's pupils dilate and contract; sharpen and pin.

"Now, now. There's no need for that. Weiss always hears; Weiss always knows." The darkness around Nero the Sable makes sounds of feeding. Alive, it slithers around him, pulls him back to the Last Floor, one feature at a time.

The last words are spoken lipless, by curling wisps of chaos. "Give her some reason to walk willingly into her Goddess' arms." There's nothing left of him now, just a voice, a hovering crimson iris, garish in the yellow light. "The rest, little pet mage, will fall into place."

_An element of choice. _Minwu stares at the empty space beside him, wears the thought through until it's thin. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Does that mean Lightning has to authorize it, the horror he's sending her to? That he has to search all the mazes in the Mirror of Atropos – all its possible futures – to give her some reason to keep fighting for a people she can never save?

He cannot fathom what he could possibly show her. What could make such a sacrifice worth anything, anything at all. And if he tells her, it all comes tumbling down. They know, all his plans, his and Aerith's well laid plans are thrown to chaos and chance.

"A place beyond the end of time." Minwu interrupts his thoughts with his voice. "What lurks in a place beyond the end of time – "

"_I do, white mage."_

The voice that finishes his sentence coils over Minwu's soul. This is the last place he expected to see this creature. The last place that the greatest of Pulse's Undying should ever be found. _And yet – _

"_I do," _it continues its impossible rasping._ "I do and we do, the forgotten ones, whose choice was taken, whose names were taken, whose eyes and minds were taken, we are there beyond the hot thing, waiting…"_

Pivoting sharply back towards the barricade, Minwu swings his weight over his back foot. There are spells in his hands before the name escapes his lips. "Vercingetorix." He struggles to swallow the wild fear that rises up his throat. "You have no place here. This trouble does not belong to you and your Master. Pulse has fled this place – "

"_My place is where I choose, petty mage of the Lufaine, my trouble where I will it…." _The Undying hovering several feet behind the barricade flaps his rotting, ruby-warted wings with furious abandon. Sealed, scarified lips twist in in a brutal smile. "_But I know the bargains and the bargains will be kept because it is not I who will break these walls, not I who will tear this down."_

Minwu intends to answer. His intention is to shout that this is a place of safekeeping, where Undying may not pass. But as he sees the sea of manikin-Cie'th crawl over one another, rising higher and higher in tides of disfigured faces and crystalline tumors and meaty limbs meant for slow killing, he knows it's no use.

It is not the Undying of Hallowed Pulse who will tear down this barricade. It is the Cie'th themselves. The ordinary women and men cursed by the fal'Cie, infected by Lufenian science, abandoned by all.

They come for their revenge.

"_You see now, do you see petty mage, that we will not be denied, even now, even here. Where my brethren are, so I am, so I go, so I stay..." _Vercingetorix inclines his head lasciviously, his broken neck supple and elegant and proud. "_You think they are nothing, that they are toys for you and Lufaine, toys to be pitied; pitied as Etro pities men. It is you who need pity; pity yourself." _

Minwu has no retort that would suffice. What Vercingetorix says is true. However, he has risked too much on this gambit – he has grown to care for these people too much – to let mere truth distress him. His hands swell with power, and long suspended atoms creak as they pull to his will.

In the distorted air, blades of grass that have not moved in centuries bend and curl. They wait for the world to change.

"_Pity, pity, petty mage."_ Vercingentorix wheedles, the fingers in his eyes clenching and unclenching. His face is beginning to disappear behind a rising mound of Cie'th-flesh, clamoring for blood. "_Such a pity, pity"_

Raising his hands before him, Minwu feels the power fire through every nerve in his body. As it crackles in his fingertips, so too does it dance behind his eyes, so too does it turn the death and destruction clawing through the barrier into an invincible vision of bright.

It is true Minwu feels pity for these creatures. It is true that he has done them harm. But pity will not save them. In the end, pity can do nothing that counts.

Vercingetorix's frame is completely obscured now, so the next words he speaks seem to come from nowhere at all. _"Are you ready today, to die?" _

The magic coaxes shy electrons from their orbits. On Minwu's fingertips, they dance.

"No." He smiles. "Not today."

* * *

><p>Somewhere at the ratty fringe of the Phantom Village, watching Kain jump from rooftop to rooftop, Vaan finally decides: <em>okay<em>. He gives up. Whatever he thinks about the creepy dragon-face helmet (_and the lipstick, and the nail-polish, and the purple)_, the moves…well_._

The moves are pretty damn cool.

Vaan shakes his head, tries idly to figure out how it works. With all that armor, there's no way he should've been able to catch up with him and Laguna so fast._ Gotta be magick, _he reasons, watching the sharp shadow cut zig-zags in the yellow light. _Otherwise, wouldn't the weight just mangle him, every time he landed?_ But then, Vaan thinks, that doesn't make any sense either, because if he can't do magick here, Kain sure shouldn't be able to.

Kain couldn't cast his way out of a wet paper bag. There's that one wind spell, maybe. As for anything else, he doesn't want to think about what happened the last time Yuna tried to teach him...

"Man." Setting his gaze back in front, Vaan picks up an already quick pace, shifts the grip on his long knife. "How does he do that?"

From a couple of feet behind him, MP7 locked snugly in the crook of his shoulder, Laguna pivots to check the rear twice before he answers. "Vaan, my friend," he replies, "who knows? I feel like I asked him once." He freezes, seems to catch some movement amongst the still-life villagers but then stands down. "Also feel like the answer gave me a headache."

Vaan laughs lowly under his breath. "Don't suppose you remember any of it?"

"Nope." Laguna's answer is jaunty. "Did my best to forget it. Get to be my age kiddo, and you learn a mind's got a limited amount of space. And frankly – " he pauses, swings back again in a neat 180, trains his weapon to 6 o'clock, 9, 3, " – I got enough to keep me occupied for a little bit. What with the – what did you call them again?"

Weaving around a woman bargaining for bread, Vaan cocks his head. "Zombies," he supplies, a little freaked out that he still sees something like light in the merchant's eyes.

"Right." Laguna follows expertly on his heels. "Zombies it is then. So, yeah. The zombies and the conspiracies and all."

At these last words, Vaan clamps his lips shut, not really wanting to talk about it. It's been a messed up two weeks, to say the least. These things sliding in through the barricade, Light's brand getting worse, Aerith and Minwu sneaking around like spies. He'd wanted to try and figure stuff out – he even managed to sneak into their quarters once or twice – but every time he thought he was getting somewhere, it was like the Inn itself started working against him. Drawers vanishing when he turned away, hallways crossing back on themselves like ship's knots, doors that lead every single place except where he wants to go.

Turning a corner into an alleyway, Vaan scratches his nose, annoyed. He's broken into enough places in his life that he really should've expected the Inn to be coated in misdirection spells like that, but he still feels like it's cheating. A good booby trap he can handle. It's the mind magick crap that really gets under his skin.

"Pretty quiet up there." Laguna's voice snaps through Vaan's thoughts. "Zombie got your tongue?"

"Nah." Vaan's feet pound over an unsplashing puddle. "Just thinking."

"Bad idea." Laguna jogs a few steps up. He'd fallen behind and Vaan remembers being told by both him and Lightning that a sniper in the rear is only supposed to hang so far back. "Distraction's a health hazard out here. Better to stick with the light stuff, you know." Laguna pauses, sets, lets loose a volley of gunfire at a moth-looking thing somewhere off ahead that Vaan didn't even see. It falls out of the sky with a distant, sloppy plop. "Killing things and what-not."

From a few rooftops ahead, Kain observes the kill impatiently before making a sharp gesture to hurry up. Waving his gun over his head, Laguna just grins in reply.

"Sure Laguna," Vaan says, turning around and launching back into a sprint. He doesn't think he needs to mention how many times _not thinking _landed them back at that same stupid Phantom Train Station."Whatever you say."

Despite Laguna's advice, Vaan can't seem to stop thinking. Not just about Aerith and Minwu and their screwed up house, but about Kain too, and what he said.

"_I left him for you,"_ he'd said one day after they got done sparring, right after he was well enough to walk four steps in row. Vaan was surprised, actually, that Kain was more than halfway decent with a sword, but then just shrugged it off as one of those knight-things. _"I can accompany you, if you'd like. The way's not so far." _

He hadn't been ready for the next bit. The part where Kain told him about a brother that he doesn't remember getting killed by some other guy he doesn't remember. Or the part where he realized that of everyone here, he's apparently the only one who's got zero memory of any family member, period. He'd almost dropped his weapon. Or maybe he did drop it. He was so shocked he honestly feels like – looking back on it – he can't keep his facts straight.

"_Forgive me."_ Vaan never understands why Kain always thinks everyone's got to forgive him for something. Everyone already got over the back-stabbing thing. But that wasn't the point at the time. "_I'd have killed him on your behalf, but by rights, his life is yours. Do with it as you wish."_

All Vaan could really do was just stand there. He wasn't sure whether to thank Kain for wanting to off the guy who did it, or to just run and keep running because it doesn't seem fair that everyone else seems to know more about his life than he does.

The thoughts bounce around in his mind, getting angrier the more he spins them around. He thinks he'd give just about any of whatever he's got left to remember a brother. To have something of his own to hold on to. _Even if it is just a memory…_

"Bet you're thinking again." Laguna ignores his own protocol and jogs up beside him. After all, Kain's just a few houses ahead now, standing and waiting for them. "What'd I tell you about that?"

"It's not like I _want _to think about it." Vaan figures Laguna can tell what's on his mind. "I just can't help it, you know."

"I hear you. Believe me, I hear you." Laguna drums his fingers over the flat of his MP7, steps studiously around a lump of garbage and the frozen rats crawling on top of it. "But you can't let it slow you down, right now. Later maybe. But not now. Hey." He winks. "I'll ignore it with you, if that makes you feel better."

Vaan snorts a laugh. "You know that doesn't even make any sense, right Laguna?"

"Meh." The word sounds like a shrug. Waving his gun up at Kain on the rooftop, he grins. "Sense is overrated."

"That explains much, coming from you." More than the surprise of it (he's not really that surprised) it's the crash of Kain's armor two feet in front of him that makes Vaan's teeth rattle. He _really_ thinks he shouldn't be able to do that without breaking bones.

Coming up beside him, Laguna clasps a hand on Kain's back. "Go easy on me, buddy," he says. "Just keeping up morale."

"Were you, now?" Vaan could swear he sees an actual smile tug at Kain's painted lips, but then thinks he must just be out of breath or something. "You've a stirring lack of sense, then." Adjusting the satchel on his shoulder, he turns his back to the alley and gestures out towards the mossy outcropping a few yards away. "Come. I understand Lord Minwu's over the ridge. Let's deliver these tomes and be done with it."

"_Lord?_" Vaan can't suppress the sarcasm in his voice as the ground beneath his feet shifts from the from the weird yellow-tinged cobblestone of the Village to the weird yellow-tinged grass of the hill. "Don't you think that's a bit much, Kain?"

Casting a quick glace over his shoulder, Kain inclines his head, smirks. "I ought not expect manners from a - what was it you were intending on pursuing – "

"Pirate," Laguna supplies, falling back to his position in the rear. "Vaan like pirates."

"_Sky pirate._" Vaan corrects because Laguna's making it sound ridiculous. "There's a diff – "

"Ah, yes," Kain interrupts smoothly, leaning forward against the steep incline of the ridge. "The hat. How could I forget?"

"Guys." Vaan scowls, draws his hunting knife up in a diagonal guard. "That was a prank."

He can almost hear the wink in Laguna's voice. "Whatever you say, kiddo," he replies. "Whatever you say."

It doesn't take them all that long to make their way up the rest of the ridge. The barricade surrounding the Phantom Village is actually about a mile from the border of the town proper, and as they get closer, Vaan feels the magick prick his skin. _It's a little like being tickled_, he thinks, forcing himself to think of normal stuff. _If being tickled was like having your arm hairs plucked out by tiny rabid fairies. _

Looking in front of him, he wonders if Kain feels it too, but then sees how his long stride's already lengthened and figures he must. It's invisible, sure, but it ripples the air like heat does, and Vaan can't get away from the feeling that the power's just hiding. Waiting beneath the surface before the pressure boils it over. He presses his lips to a line as he jogs up a few steps to fall in closer behind Kain. He's been out here a bunch of times before, but it's never been quite this bad. And there's that smell in the air, like rotted meat…

_Oh, crap, _he thinks. Vaan hasn't crested the hill yet, but he knows what's coming. He strangles his long knife. _Not now. Not again._

"Hey guys." Even though Laguna's in the rear, he's the first to say it out loud. "You feel that? You _smell_ that?"

"Yeah." Vaan's response cuts over the rushing whoosh of Kain's forward jumping. Sprinting up to follow, he calls back over his shoulder. "Yeah. Smells like a bad day, Laguna."

By the time Vaan reaches the top of the ridge, Kain's spear is already in hand. For a second, he's half surprised that the guy hasn't rushed into what he assumed would be an ordinary throng of zombies, but then he blinks, looks down, understands.

"No way," he whistles.

Because the barricade's basically an invisible wall, it's hard to tell where cracks have formed. On patrols, they've only really been able to find the leaks by checking around it, looking for patterns in the way the things smash up against it. If there's space, then it's pretty obvious. Four or five at a time kind of slide through, and they look a bit like a line of ants, squeezing out of a crack in the wall.

_But this – _

Vaan pulls his knife arm up to his nose to keep the sheer rotting stench of it out of his nostrils. This is a swarm. Like flies on a dead dog or something. They're spilling into the valley in a torn up mass of grey, and all that's holding them back is a single white mage. Lost in the spin of his robes, Vaan can't help the thought that Minwu looks too small. A toy, almost, in a game about monsters.

The fear that grips his stomach has cold, spindly fingers. He _hates _these things, and while he can't say he's Minwu's biggest fan, he's still one of _them_, and Vaan doesn't let his people die so easy.

"Wait." Kain's heavy hand on Vaan's shoulder is all that keep him from vaulting over the ridge. "We need Laguna – "

"Somebody call my – " The jogging footsteps that have been racing up behind stop dead in their tracks. "Oh, shit. Holy Hyne-loving _shit_."

Readying himself to jump forward, Kain doesn't even turn. "Can you hold the higher ground?"

Almost in spite of himself, Vaan nearly laughs at how easy they work together. They seem different on the outside, but Kain and Laguna fight together like old friends. _Which maybe they are,_ he supposes. _By now._

"_Can I…_Who you talking to, Highwind?" Laguna's not even done shaking his head before he's dropped to a knee and pulled the parts of his sniper rifle out of his pack. Vaan counts maybe forty five snap-and-click sounding seconds before the weapon's completely assembled and tucked into his shoulder. " 'Hold the higher ground_…_'" Smirking, he looks up. "Mind take some time off from bastardry to spot this for me?"

Spinning his spear in front of his eye, Kain mutters, "620 feet."

"620 ancient medieval fairy-tale feet, or 620 _feet _feet?" Laguna's too busy adjusting the sight to look up. "Not that I don't trust you buddy, but that "furlong" thing left kinda a bad taste in my mouth."

"Your homeworld lacks practical education. That's no concern of mine." Squinting, Kain confirms the distance with the confidence of a man trained to fly, "620 feet. 30 degrees south by southwest. Vaan - " he spares only the briefest of looks over his shoulder before he jumps forward in a blur of purple steel " – with me, please."

"I shoot you again, Highwind," Laguna calls after them, although his voice almost gets eaten up by the sizzling pop of magick in the air, the wet, sad-sounding groans of the fight below, "it's _your _fault."

There are absolutely no words to describe the smell. As Vaan rushes down the other side of the ridge towards the shimmering Minwu-shaped blob of magick in the distance, it hits him like the broad side of a steel bar. When they faced these things on the _Falcon_, there was enough wind to cut it up a little, but here in this stupid frozen village, there's no place to hide from it. It claws up his nostrils and sits on his tongue. And the closer they get, the more he swears it tastes like he's just sucked down a shake made of blood, shit and garbage.

He really wants to puke. _No, really. _He feels like life would be a whole lot better if he could puke.

The monsters get thicker as they rush down the ridge, and as hard as Vaan's trying, he's losing track of Kain. Its' really all he can do to keep his knife out in front of him, wounding whatever he can and then running past them. With these numbers, he's got to try and avoid direct fighting if he can. They've just got to get Minwu and get out.

_Get out. _The thought pounds against his temples along with his pulse. Slashing through the screeching face of another one, he spits its blood out of his mouth as he mutters, "Just got to get out…"

It seems like a pretty good plan, but even a pretty good plan involving running headlong into a thousand zombies is still going to be kinda stupid. And when Vaan comes face to face with about four of those huge ones – the ones with the six inch thick hunks of scab instead of fingers – he realizes he's not going to be able to just dance by.

"Crap," he mutters, spinning as he pulls a second knife from his belt. Over and over (_and over and over)_, he hacks the finger-thick arteries that crowd their dying skin, but it's not enough. Black blood and bits of artery fly off in his face, but it doesn't seem to make any differences. They're way too big. They're way too big and now they're _really_ mad, and all of a sudden Vaan can't tell what direction the blows are coming from – only that one seems to chase another, and the bones in his shoulders and neck are moving places they shouldn't_._

The blood in his hair stinks. He doesn't know why he's thinking about that, but he is.

They close in on him. Crash after brutal crash, the only thing in the whole world is neck-snapping pain. The spout of blood from his nostrils. The watery red haze where his sight used to be. The teeth he feels moving around in his jaw. Vaan holds his arms up in a feeble block and tries to hold on, tries to keep his head more or less attached to his spine, but it seems like a losing bet.

It's Kain's voice that manages to reach him through the bloody crush of blunt force impact. Distant and distorted-sounding, the words ring past the throbbing concussion just in time for Vaan to realize they're really, _really _important.

"Take cover_, _fool." Semi-delirious, Vaan wonders how Kain can manage to slip the word "fool" into almost any sentence. "_Now_."

Later, Vaan won't be able to explain exactly what part of his brain listened, but he'll be thankful for it. Because the lead storm of bullets that sear by his face and shred the things in front of him to veiny strings are deadly and precise, but not so precise that they would have missed his head if he'd kept it where it was.

_Laguna,_ he thinks, when the bullets and the blows finally stop. Brushing a frothy mixture of spit and Cie'th juice from his lips, he reminds himself he's got to ask Laguna to show him how to shoot like that. Dizzily, he raises a hand to the silhouette on the ridge. Lets his friend know he's at least sort of still alive.

A superheated volley of gunfire sails inches past his face in reply.

Still soggy from the hits to his head, the field Vaan turns back to is pure chaos. Like the deck of the _Falcon,_ except spread out across miles. The tear in the barricade is obvious from this distance, but he can't tell how many of the zombies are getting ready to swarm through it because all he can see beyond the shimmer of Protection is a featureless pillar of flesh and crystal, of demons climbing over themselves, screaming...

The thing slips and slides over itself. A giant screw made of skin, turning slowly through the empty amber air.

The whole thing's so sad and disgusting for a second, Vaan feels pinned. Bullets sail by his head, exploding Cie'th in black mist, but he just stands still in the middle of it all, trying to find Kain. Trying to find anyone, _anything,_ that's even vaguely human looking at all.

Terror slithers down his spine, wet like seaweed.

"_Go, go, go_," he whispers to himself, forcing any thoughts at all out of his mind. What he can't outright dodge, he cuts through just enough to distract. _Just gotta go, get Minwu, get Kain, get out._

"My lord mage," Again, he hears Kain's voice and it's like the point of a compass somewhere in the steaming mess. _Where the_ _hell – _"These tomes carry no mean spells. Are you certain?"

"No." Minwu's ragged voice has a touch of mirth, and Vaan uses it to orient himself in the mass of flesh. _Come on, come on. _"Certain is the last thing I am, Sir knight. Though it hardly matters, does it?"

A low chuckle rises over a sick crunch of metal against bone. The sounds come quick and repeated_, _in that crazy-precise way Kain always moves when he's killing things. "No." He hears another one, savage and wet. Another. _He's got to be close. _"I suppose not."

Frustrated he still can't see them, Vaan abandons the idea of using his buckler to block the onrush of blows from fat, decaying hands. He moves on instinct, lets fear or anger or whatever works best guide the knives in his hands. But as he rips through them – through waves of coming-apart faces and ribs and frayed ropes of tendon – he can't stop noticing that their skin's really soft. Really soft, and really human feeling, and it slides under his nails as he guts them, one after the other.

_Don't think._ Laguna's advice is good, he decides, forgetting about it and slashing harder now, faster. _Really, really good._

"Guys_._" Vaan calls out, furious. "Where are you?"

There's no answer. Wherever they are, they can't hear him or can't answer right now or both. Between them is a river of flesh his voice can't cross.

"Would you mind?" Minwu again. In the madness, Vaan can feel a clean, sing-song rush of magick open up in his senses. Different than the other spells he must have been casting. And different from the barricade too. "This requires just a little more space."

"As you wish." There's another bloody hack. Another reply that sounds really, way, way too calm to be sane in this hell. "Stay behind me and do not move."

"You're a credit to your name, son of Ricard Highwind," Minwu replies. The magick's growing stronger now, jumping around in his nerves. "Do tell Aerith I am sorry, in the event this does not work."

"Leave your credit and your errands, Sir. I've need of neither." The tip of Kain's spear finally comes into view, and Vaan feels relief like summer rain. "There's a task at hand."

A quiet laugh. "As you say."

There are still too many Cie'th in view for Vaan to get a good look at what's happening. The only thing he's really sure of is that that there's no stopping the magick now. Minwu's pulling it from everywhere, the way that spring pulls life out the ground. And the scum that coats his tongue is cut by a dry, dusty cold that reminds him of old temples. Old temples in winter, when the temperature's too low for snow.

_Holy._

But he thought, only _Aerith – _

Instinctively, Vaan steps back, raises his right arm to the level of his eyes. Gobs of bloody demon gum up his boots, and for some reason, of all the things that are going on around him, it's this that he focuses on. The sticky resistance of blood on rubber, the only sensible thing he make out of in a universe suddenly drowning in white.

_Don't think. Don't think. Don't think. _

Vaan doesn't know where he is. Still blurred from all those hits, his vision's not a thing he can trust anymore. But even if it was, he doubt he'd be able to say anything about the force of destruction that surges around him, other than it's beautiful. It reminds him of little girls, singing songs.

When Vaan raises his eyes from the crease of his forearm, he thinks the emptiness he's seeing is just a trick. Some side-effect of the concussion that's making it difficult for him to keep himself upright. It's still there after he blinks, though. The devastation. The pale fog rising over the dead. The red and black and yellow field. Kain and Minwu, just standing there, just staring.

Pivoting, Vaan follows where their eyes lead. He watches as the tear in the barricade zippers shut. As the few Cie'th remaining on the other side shamble away, suddenly lacking the numbers to force their way through. As one of them – one with hands in its eyes and a boiling hole in its chest that reminds him way too much of Light's brand – rises above them and _holy mother of…_

It talks. The thing _talks._

"_Petty mage survives today, but will you survive tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow here in your prison, here with your lies?"_ The mouthless thing seems to be speaking to Minwu. _"What you have done today will not be forgotten murdering mage, petty murdering mage. For this and all crimes will you pay."_

"So will you, Vercingetorix." Minwu's not stable on his feet as he answers. "So will we all, in time."

Minuw only lasts upright for as along as it takes for the thing to flutter up into a dot in the sky. Face-first, he collapses, crumples into the muck, and it looks a bit like a leaf falling into a pond.

It seems like he's still talking, though. For some reason, lying near motionless in gore, Minwu's still mumbling on, babbling nonsense words that are too quiet to hear. He only stops when Kain scoops him up, holds him to his chest like a child. And even though he's a little curious, by the time Vaan finally makes his way over to join them, he can't even bring himself to ask what was said. It feels like it barely matters anymore.

Cautiously, he asks. "You going to be alright?"

"You're a good lad, Vaan." Minwu's eyes look broken. He's not answering the question Vaan asked. "A good lad. And I am very, very sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am."

"Don't worry about it." Vaan doesn't quite know what he's forgiving or pretending to forgive, but whatever it is, right now he thinks he might even mean it. He puts his hand on Minwu's limp arm and pats it softly, twice. "It's okay."

* * *

><p>Aerith Gainsborough has a dilemma.<p>

Well, more like a choice.

With her arms draped around Minwu's shoulders, she breathes deeply and narrows her options. She could, of course, just continue holding him, pressing her head into the space under his jaw and reassuring herself that he's still in one piece. She could also lecture him. He's been taxing himself beyond the limits of sanity recently, between the Mirror of Atropos and evading the Lufenian and rebuilding Kain Highwind's arm from scratch, it's no wonder he was so weak. No wonder he couldn't heal himself…_no wonder he almost…_

And to try _Holy. _Of all things. Of all spells. She tries not to tremble thinking about it. It ripped through her mind when he cast it, sent her flying out the door to the barricade, and a good thing too. If she hadn't gotten there on time. If she'd been even just a little late –

Her hand drops from his shoulder to his stomach, and she pours Refresh into his belly, filling his him with all the mana she can spare, all the mana his depleted nerves can take. Beneath her palm, his abdomen rises and falls, warm and strong and still alive. It reassures her a little. She closes her eyes.

There's life there. Not a perfect life, or a happy one necessarily, but his. _Thiers._

The last option is probably just to slap him. And to be honest, digging her nails into the tensed-up muscles in the back of his neck, Aerith thinks that may be the winner.

In her ears, the Lifestream chatters its dissatisfaction. It's not especially happy with her recently, and it takes the thought a bit too seriously. She can't really say that she cares.

"What were you thinking?" Opening her eyes, she breathes the words against grainy skin. "Why didn't you _call_ for me? I would have come. I would have helped."

Aerith feels Minwu tense in her embrace, feels his hands retract from where he's braided them in her hair. Gripping her shoulders, he pushes her slightly back and just stares at her as if he's studying her. As if he's trying to find something in her face that's different from what he's seen the last thousand times he's searched it.

It's an uncomfortable look. One she's never seen before. Pulling back, Aerith narrows her eyes. "No," she says, anticipating. "_No._"

"We have to." The hands on Aerith's shoulders squeeze tighter. "We have to tell them. We cannot go on this way. It will not work."

Aerith shakes her head and blinks. "Minwu, are you insane?" she asks. "This was your – _you _were the one who convinced me – "

"I was wrong." Minwu's hands drop from her shoulders. They fall, loose and anti-climactic and thin, to his side. "Aerith, I was wrong. The Mirror of Atropos will not heel to my power alone. The magic – " a bitter laugh escapes pinched lips " – the magic depends on _choice. _I wasn't sure about it before, but now I am. If Lightning Farron goes to Etro, I must give her a reason to go willingly. Her brand cannot be removed any other way."

Aerith doesn't believe him. Can't believe him. "What do you mean?"

" '_An element of choice.'_" Minwu rolls the words around in his mouth. "That's what Nero said. Beyond the end of her world, there is something, I am told, I have to show her. Some future for her, and the people of Nova Crystallis. If I can find it…allow her to see it, then I think I understand how the Mirror will lift her brand. I think I understand how it has to work."

"You don't believe _Nero,_ do you?" The words coming out of Aerith's mouth seem so ridiculous she almost laughs. "He's a psychopath."

"He's _right._" Minwu is as definitive as he is when he recites spells or anatomy. "It makes perfect sense."

"But Minwu." Anger worms its way into Aerith's worry. What he's saying flies in the face of everything. Everything they've worked for, everything they've done. "It's all finally coming together. Cosmos' death – the end of the cycles – it _will _drive Shinryu to the Door of Souls. With Etro and Lightning there, we'll have our chance to cripple him. We can lure them into direct conflict before he reaches full strength." She pauses, presses the cold palms of her hands to his hips. "This can be _over. _We can set it right."

Minwu's response is immediate, cutting and clear. "We cannot 'set it right' if Lightning dies here," he says. "She has to know. They all have to know. They have to understand what's at stake."

"They'll never, never go," Aerith responds with equal certainty. "They'll never sacrifice Lightning or her world. They'll die trying to find another way and Shinryu will be unstoppable. Everyone else will pay. Every other world will pay. _Minwu, _if we just – "

"If, if, if." Minwu never raises his voice, but he does now, and Aerith flinches at the unfamiliar strain in it. "_If _Cosmos can truly bring the cycles to an end. _If_ I can remove Lighting's brand._ If_ Etro and she are at the Door of Souls at the precise moment Shinryu comes to feed._ If_ Lindzei and her minions do not kill us all first." In one sharp motion, Minwu turns his back on her, his robes snapping behind. "If the others do not mutiny to protect one they love. Aerith, we – " He stops, wrestles his voice back in place. "No. This was over the second the Lufenian threw Tifa Lockhart in the Ruins. It cannot work. I have gambled worlds on a house of cards."

"You didn't have anything else to gamble them on." Exhaling, Aerith walks forward, presses her hand between his shoulder blades, starts rubbing away the tension, bit by bit. "What else could you do? Not even Cid of the Lufaine understood the bargain he struck…"

Minwu doesn't answer. He just fixes his eyes on the stagnant world beyond the window and hits the wall he's leaning against. Once. Twice. Again. _Controlled rage, _she thinks. He's always so controlled. Aerith wonders how he can stand it, sometimes.

"Right now, or them, all this is only about going home." Swallowing, she goes on, past the horrified whispers of the Lifestream, past her own conscience. "And if that's all this is for them, we can keep them moving; they'll never know. Lightning's world is doomed anyway. Bringing her to Valhalla, forcing this fight – what does it matter? It will hobble Shinryu, and all she'll be doing is becoming what she was meant to be. Don't make this hard on them. We still have five crystals. This can still – ."

The breath that Minwu inhales is small and brief, and in the silence that follows, Aerith thinks that maybe she has him. That he's not, with just one stupid word, going to make every lie she's told meaningless and awful. She waits, anticipating.

"No."

_We told you. _The Lifestream's muttering is not unkind or malicious or mocking, but it is constant and knowing and all Aerith wants to do is make it shut up. _We told you shouldn't lie._

"_No_," Minwu repeats. "It's impossible to avoid now. Perhaps it was always so, and the Mirror only made it plain. Lightning will know the second she looks into the glass what her future holds. Once she does, she will never trust us again, and neither will her allies."

"Minwu, _listen – _"

"I am listening." Straightening, he brings his hand back down to his side. "If we do not tell them, they will turn against us and then there is no chance at all."

"We can't risk it."

"We cannot risk the alternative," he says, still staring at whatever's lingering beyond the window. "They cannot be controlled any more than I could. Or you. It was arrogant folly of me to think otherwise." The slump in Minwu's shoulders sinks deep into his voice. "Greater fool I, I think, than he who chained me."

"Don't you _ever_ compare yourself to Cid of the Lufaine." The hand that's still massaging the knots of muscle nesting between Minwu's shoulder blades goes utterly still. "You were the only one who saw what was happening, the _only_ one who saw the risk while Cosmos and Chaos and Cid played their game. If this works, we owe you – _everyone_ owes you – " She stops, collects herself. "You did everything you did for a reason."

"You're right. I did." The pain in Minwu's voice is naked. "Revenge. Make no mistake. This – whatever this is, whatever I have become – it was all for revenge."

"So?" Letting her hand slide down from his shoulder, Aerith wraps her arms around his waist and steps forward so her cheek rests against the filthy robes. No matter how angry she is, it kills her to hear him talk like this. "So what?"

"Aerith? What - "

"I said," she repeats, pressing him closer, "so _what_? There's nothing wrong with it, Minwu. Good comes from revenge. Justice comes from revenge. Do you really think Cloud killed Sephiroth to 'save the Planet'? Do you think heroes ever really do anything _other_ than for revenge?"

"Aerith." She can feel the tremble in his breath as he speaks. "You don't have to say these things. I understand what I've done. It's a crime and I will pay for it. There's no need for you –

"Yes there is, you just don't believe it," she cuts him off with out a second thought. "I love you. I don't agree with one thing you've said in the last twenty minutes, you ridiculous man, but I love you, and I can't hear you talk about yourself this way."

"Thank you for being so kind," he says, suddenly formal. "I appreciate it."

Aerith lets out an endless exhalation. She's got no idea how to make him hear what she's saying. She doesn't know how may more words it could possible take. "What do I have to do to make you believe me?"

He doesn't turn to look at her. "I want you to know," he says, avoiding the subject as expertly as he avoids her gaze, "you don't have to help me anymore. I took choices from them I will not take from you. Not again."

"Minwu." Aerith feels him flinch as she threads her fingers through his. "You know I never had to do anything. You know I'm not going anywhere."

Minwu stays quiet, and the hand in hers stays still.

"I don't agree." Aerith doesn't hesitate to add the thought. "I don't. But I can't stop you. And I just want you to know that I didn't do this – I'm not here with you – because I have to be."

"You'll help, then?" Minwu isn't moved off-topic. He won't talk to her about it, about the way she behaved. But he won't let it go either, so instead it just swells quietly between them, pushing them apart. "It would be hard…to do this without you."

"Of course. I don't like it, but we're in this together." She pauses, squeezes the hand in hers just a little harder. "Please believe me." She swallows the lump in her throat. "_Please_."

The silence that drifts between them is complete. Even the Lifestream stays quiet and for a time, there isn't room in the air for anything other than the soft stagnation of the Phantom Village. Its yellow sky and its timelessness. Its glassy-eyed sameness. Its poor, broken citizens, who can only just sit here and watch.

"Fine then," Aerith says, dropping his hand to press a soft kiss to his spine. The cloth tastes of salt and dirt and blood, but she leaves her lips there anyway. She'll leave them there as long as they need to stay. "You don't have to. I'll believe it for both of us."

* * *

><p>Things Laguna Loire likes include the little glass tinkle that potions make when stowed in rucksacks. He knows that the noise means he hasn't necessarily provisioned correctly, because really, the supplies in the pack shouldn't be so loose, but he finds that hard to get too worked up about.<p>

He thinks it sounds kind of merry. And Laguna will take merry anywhere he can get it. Particularly at times like these, when, _well,_ in addition to exploding-mages and all the other bullshit, he's managed to talk himself into assembling supply rucks when he could be doing other, more useful things. Like sleeping. Or drinking. Or shooting things. _Or drinking and shooting things at the same time…_

Tipping a brow, Laguna lets the thought stick around in his head for longer than it should. _Might be fun_.

Exhaling a short laugh through his nose, Laguna dismisses the idea and then squints at the expiration date on an Elixir. _Been spending too much time around Light,_ he thinks, setting the bottle aside in the "Better Safe than Sorry" pile. Before he'd met her, no way would he have thought of spending an evening at liberty – _an evening at liberty after a firefight, no less_ – in the provisionary doing logistics detail.

_But hey._ Things change. Plus he kind of likes it in here. It's one of the internal chambers, lit by torches, and he can hide from that brain-screwing yellow for a little while.

Ducking under the counter, Laguna grumbles quietly and looks for rations that aren't behemoth strips. He doesn't quite understand how it is in a place where Aerith and Minwu appear to have access to just about every type of random supply possible – _including some they store in that bizarre Fat_ Chocobo _thing__ – _the only dry rations they've got are Hyne-foresaken dehydrated behemoth strips.

_Behemoth strips._ It's just so ludicrous. No Human being on any world should be required to eat behemoth. _Ever. _Frankly, he'd rather have the nutri-packs they parceled out over their weeks in the desert.

"All the rations in all the worlds," he mutters to himself, pushing around stacks of the stuff, "and it's ten tons of behemoth strips. What kind of barbarians eat – "

"Laguna?" The sound of Yuna's voice brings him up sharply. So sharply he bangs his head on the countertop and swears probably much more loudly and much more intensely than strictly necessary. "Is that you?"

Rising sheepishly out of his crouch, Laguna offers her a crooked grin. "Heya, kiddo," he says, rubbing what's likely going to turn into one hell of bump on his hard skull, "What are you doing here?"

Smiling back, she surveys the table of supplies with slightly narrowed eyes. "It's been a long day, but I couldn't really sleep," she replies. "Don't you think that's enough behemoth strips?"

"Why yes, yes I do." Laguna tries to make his sigh sound more theatrical than exasperated. He thinks it doesn't work. "_In fact,_ if you could help yours truly try and find rations in non-behemoth format, I promise I'll never let Light near another one of your kimonos again. I'll even give you Kain's fifty gil so you can buy another one." He presses his hand to his chest. "Cross my heart."

"It's okay." Giggling, Yuna crosses the few steps across the threshold to examine one of the shelving units. "I kind of like it, actually. Maybe I'll cut them all up this way. And besides – " she throws a wink over her shoulder " – kimonos cost a little more than fifty gil."

"Well then," Laguna bargains. "I'll just have to win you some more. Kain's a smart guy, but he'd lose his – er, dragon hat – at Triple Triad."

"_Laguna._"

"C'mon, darlin'." Laguna turns back to portioning supplies between packs. "What're friends for if you can't take their money every once in a while?"

"I'm not sure." Yuna's answer's almost lost in the plump-sounding rustle of a sack of flour being pushed aside. "Companionship," she starts a dreamy-sounding list, "understanding, _adventures_ – "

"Nah." Laguna interrupts, rolling bandages and a phial of Holy Water tightly into a medikit and dropping it into the nearest ruck. "I'm in it for the gil."

As Yuna's indulgent laughter warms the hollow spaces in the provisionary, Laguna debates saying it again. He's repeated himself a hundred times already, but he really feels like he can't apologize enough. Hyne knows he's had his fair share of less than well thought-out affairs in his time, and maybe trying to flirt with the Cloud of Darkness wasn't his finest moment, but still, Yuna's different. This is not a friendship he can afford to mess up. He's running short, these days, on people like her.

"Hey," he says quietly, picking up a utility knife and testing the edge of it with his thumb. "I know I'm going to sound a bit like a broken record here, but I'm so – "

"Oh, Laguna." Yuna's interruption is so gentle it doesn't feel like one. "It's – You know you don't have to."

"I do, darlin'. I know, " he says, sliding the blade against the stately neck of a bottle of dry ether. "But it still feels like I…I…"

"Like you what?" Apparently frustrated with searching around the sac of flour, Yuna stops to pull it off the shelf before continuing. A big puffy cloud of the stuff hits her in the face as it plops on the ground and she sniffles. "Had the worst possible nightmare? Got a little scared? No." She pauses sniffles again, wipes the flour from her nose. "You don't have _anything _to say sorry for. Not one thing, okay?"

Doubtful, Laguna sets the utility knife down with the other hunting supplies. An inventory checklist plays through his head as he does – _knives, rope, sling, tape – _neat and categorical and pleasantly off-topic. "Not even being a crummy kisser?"

"Don't be silly." Angling her small body strangely, she grimaces as she reaches all the way back into the shelf. She's reaching for something specific, he can tell. "And…really…" She pauses, coy-sounding, even though it looks like she hasn't quite found what she's looking for. "You're not _that _bad."

The warmth in Yuna's voice settles nicely in Laguna's ears, and he chuckles. "Good to know I haven't lost my touch…_er_…mouth…"

"I think it's still 'touch'," Yuna corrects after he trails off. She looks at the shelf as if she can guilt it into giving her what she wants. "I don't think "mouth" makes any sense…"

"Yeah." Laguna inclines his head, agrees. "Suppose it doesn't."

As they work, the provisionary fills up with the kind of quiet, companionable silence they've learned to share over the last little while. And as Laguna slides the hunting supplies into the convenient little hunting-supply-kits he found in the locker (_or pantry, or whatever they call it here)_, he lets his mind drift off; off to Raine and Ellone and his nameless baby boy; to Esthar and Galbadia and all the other things and people that've gone by in his life. _Passed over like a cloud, _he rolls the simile over in his mind, _left behind like a shadow…_

Laguna scratches a tame itch under his tags before he looks back down at the counter and sighs. His own responses frustrate the hell out of him sometimes. He can't believe he's still trying to make it all sound pretty. Like it's that book he never wrote, and not his life.

"You know." Laguna starts talking before he even really notices. "Everyone's always telling you that when you lose someone you love, you're supposed to move on. That's the goal, you know. Like it's this actual place you get to where all of a sudden – poof_ – _it's not supposed to hurt anymore." He laughs, rueful. "Welcome to 'moved-on'-land. We've got your sugar and rainbows right here. Leave your baggage at the door."

"It's true, isn't it," Yuna answers right away, as if she's been waiting for him to say something like that. Still rummaging around on the shelf, she adds, "And it starts right away, too. Almost the second you've lost them, someone's saying 'let go', 'don't dwell', 'get over it'."

"Me usually." Laguna feels the irony in what he's saying, but it doesn't matter. "But I don't know. Maybe this time, I say screw 'em." He smiles, trying to sound mockingly resolute but he feels his voice go sideways in his throat. "Maybe there's nothing wrong with holding on a bit."

"No," Yuna agrees. Briefly, she stops moving things around and her flour-tipped fingers still. She doesn't turn around. "No, there isn't. It's a good thing sometimes. To remember…"

"I just wish it didn't have to go down this way, you know." He blows out a captive breath. "I just wish I'd done it, you know, when I had the chance. I mean, I don't really want the memores, so much..." the words don't want to come out of his throat but Laguna forces them. "So much as I just want her back. I didn't do it right, kiddo. I didn't see her there, when she was right in front of my face..."

"That's always the trick, isn't it?" Yuna's voice is clear but sad. "Knowing what you have when you have it. But nobody knows the future, Laguna. You can't blame yourself for being an ordinary person, for thinking you had time." She sighs. "Everybody does. It's just…sometimes it doesn't work out that way…"

"Yeah, maybe," he mutters. He can't talk about this anymore, he doesn't think. "Still hurts like hell, though."

"Yes, it does." Yuna's head drops just an inch. "That part of it doesn't stop. But Laguna," she adds, after a while, warm and sincere. "I hope you know, you're a good person. We wouldn't have made it this far without you. Your wife…she was lucky, too."

"Nah." Laguna tries to sound as bright as possible but if feels like he's just swallowed a frog or something. "Still don't remember her all that well, but I'm pretty sure I got the winning hand there."

"Oh, don't say that." Laguna hears Yuna start pushing things around again – the scratchy, ordinary sounds of productive work. "Who knows?" she adds, wistful and warm. "In another life, maybe – "

"Another life, ten years younger, a lot richer." He makes sure to throw in all the stuff she deserves, the stuff she should have, just because. "Hell, if you're going to dream – "

"Dream big." Laguna's head snaps up at the sudden, excited interruption. Yuna almost never cuts in while anyone's talking, and she certainly doesn't usually sound like that when she does. But when he looks across the room, sees the look on her still-slightly flour-puffed face and the bottle of wine she's got clutched in her hand, he understands.

Grinning, Laguna puts a hand on his hips. He realizes she's not a big drinker, but – "Bottle of wine's not all that big, love. I was thinking grander scale. Flying cars and glamorous parties with those ladies who're painted gold and stuff."

"Okay, so it's a bit smaller," she concedes, planting it on the counter. "But it's a treat, don't you think? It's not dry behemoth, anyway – "

"It'll do." Laguna hops clear over the pile of rucks on the floor to whisk the bottle away. It still feels like he's got a load of bricks in his stomach, but he does his best to put it aside. "I'm calling break time. Now where'd I see those glasses_..._" He scowls, surveys the heaps of things scattered through the provisionary. Scratching his head, he mutters, " Could've sworn I saw them a few minutes ago."

"You mean the glasses on the _table_, Laguna?" Pointed as usual, Vaan's voice sails in from the hall. "How can you shoot zombies from a mile away and not see stuff that's three feet in front of you?"

Swinging his gaze to the doorframe, Laguna sends a mile salute to him and Tifa, sauntering in through the doorway. "Different skills, my young friend," he replies, reaching for another one of the utility knives and popping the cork on the bottle. "No need to get feisty."

"Is that _feisty?"_ With one smooth gesture, Tifa swipes the glasses up and sets them squarely on in front of Laguna. She casts a sideways glace at Vaan. "He always acts this way."

Yuna smiles, brushes flour from her ragged skirt. "I think you're probably just used to it by now, Tifa."

"Hey." Idly, Vaan grabs a behemoth strip and starts chewing on it. "Don't blame me 'cause Laguna can't find anything. I'm just pointing it out."

Ignoring everyone, Laguna splashes a liberal pour into the glasses. He can afford to be magnanimous with Vaan, given the kid spent the afternoon slicing through Cie'th with the equivalent of a chef's knife. "Now, now," he says. "Let's not quibble over details when our fair Yuna's found us this lovely bottle of distraction."

Tifa arches a brow at him, leans over the counter. The doubt in her voice doesn't get all the way up to her eyes. "Um. Don't you remember what happened to you the last time…?"

"No worries." Holding up his left hand, he wiggles his fingers. It hurts a little to look at the ring, but he finds, for some reason, it's a good hurt. The kind that reminds a guy he's still alive, still got some skin left in the game_. _"Vaan's got a status charm for every ailment. Now – " He pauses " – all we need is a toast. Perhaps our Lady of Seventh Heaven?"

Laguna watches Tifa fidget, thinking. "Here's to…" she starts and then trails off, apparently out of inspiration. "Here's to – "

"A barmaid in Midgar?" Laguna drawls and Yuna elbows him lightly in the ribs. "What?"

"Man, you guys suck at this, " Vaan observes, pushing off the counter and tilting his glass."If we're going to drink to something, let's make it good at least." He smirks. "Here's to me."

"Really?" Tifa asks, dubious.

Laguna barks a laugh. "Sure, why not?"As he holds up his glass, torchlight reclines in the warm claret, and he can't get over how nice it is to not be seeing yellow. "To Vaan."

"Hey_," _Tifa adds before going to drape an arm around Yuna's shoulder. "What about Yuna? No offense Vaan," she quips, mischievous, "but you shouldn't get all the credit. Besides, I think she's nicer than you are."

"I don't know about that, Ms. Lockhart." Laguna breathes in the scent of the wine, tastes things like peat and blackberries and home. "You should've seen her smack Light back in the desert."

"No kidding?" Vaan looks suddenly interested. "You never told me that."

"Stop." Giggling, Yuna rests her head on Tifa's shoulder just briefly before lifting both it and her glass. "But really then," she adds, "how about just…now? To here and now. Holding on to the good things, for a bit."

Vaan's the first to clink his glass, but it's followed suit by three more. And as Laguna glances over the counter to Yuna, he sees that she's looking right at him, and that she's smiling, and that she gets it.

It's something that's just between them, he guesses, and for some reason the thought just makes him feel a hell a whole lot better. Like someone's lifted the lead weight off his chest and all of a sudden, there's air where there wasn't any before.

"I can get behind that," Laguna says and hopes nobody else hears the tear in his voice. "I'll drink to that." Turning to Vaan, he sets an apologetic hand on the kid's wiry shoulder and squeezes. "Sorry bud. Looks like you lost your toast there."

Shrugging, Vaan swirls the wine around in the bottom of his glass before he takes a nonchalant sip. "Nah," he tosses off the reply with a lopsided smile. "This was probably better, anyway."

* * *

><p>Lightning feels a little bad about just standing here, watching him.<p>

Of course Kain's in the armory. Of course he's in the armory, _by himself, _trying to strip off that ridiculous dented armor of his with one good hand.

Crossing her arms, Lightning figures she should just go inside and get it over with. Or at least try and help him with some of those buckles he's struggling with. But for now, something keeps her stuck in the doorway; something won't quite let her move.

He's sitting on a bench, hunched over. Dead-dragon helm is off, and he's somehow managed to peel away more or less all of the right side of his armor. _Cuirass,_ she ticks the term off silently, the archaic word coming to mind more easily than half her memories. _Rerebrace. Gauntlet. _The belts that hold the left pauldron in place still cross his back though, and as he leans in farther to attempt the clasps on his left vambrace, they channel into his thin black doublet, strain taut over ridges of muscle that ripple and bunch when he moves.

Sweat seals tendrils of ash-gold hair to the nape of his neck. And as he works, she watches them twist in patterns, wonders how far they've actually come since the last time she stood in an armory, looking at him from behind. If, in fact, they've managed to get anywhere at all.

If anything's really changed.

"_How beautiful,_" he'd said, and other than the words, everything about him was hard and angry and hot from the forge. His skin beneath her fingers, she remembers, was slick, firm, railed by scars. _"Unexpected."_

At the time she'd thought he was talking about her name, although considering it again, she doesn't know. About anything, frankly. Then or now. _Who she is, was,_ _might be turning into._

Lightning clenches her jaw, refuses to think about it too hard. One time going half Cie'th's more enough for her.

And so, more than it probably should, her mind returns to that other moment. She finds her thoughts orbiting but not touching it, skating the rings of a conclusion. _Mistake. Mistake. Stupid, needs-to-get-laid mistake. _

_Was it? _The question tugs at her mind, wayward, unsatisfied. It made her feel better to think that way for a while, just like it makes her feel better to fly off a ledge and let the grav-con catch her, or to break things when they need to be fucking broken. But _still. _Looking at him now, so tired and resolute, struggling with something he clearly can't get done himself, she can't decide.

Lightning inhales, watches the shadowed flex of his shoulders and triceps, smells iron and rust and sweat and leather and doesn't understand what brings her here now any more than she understood what brought her there, then.

Well, other than the fact she was a bitch to him, just now. That part of it's clear enough. It's the other part, the part that could be lust but probably isn't, that's taking her off her game.

Exhaling slowly so he won't hear her breathe, she notices Kain's stopped for a second. That he's reaching out to the rack of holy weapons beside him. Some of them have Regen forged into the steel, and she can almost _see _him thinking that maybe that'll fix his hand, that maybe he can do it himself. Despite the fact that the healing spells of three of the strongest white mages – _oh, maybe ever_ – haven't.

There's a sharp clink of armor as he extends his left arm. Followed quickly by the sound of sizzling skin, a rare whispered curse, a common, bitter laugh.

The burning-skin smell fills the armory and Lightning looses control over her breath. It hitches. Audibly. _Shit._

"I know you're there, Lightning." The ash blond head shakes and he straightens. "Tell me," he says. "Does skulking in corners give you some kind of pleasure?"

"Not really," she replies, stepping out of the doorway with measured, intentional steps. "And I'm not skulking."

"Very well," Kain corrects himself as he returns to fumbling the straps with his gnarled right hand. "Lurking."

"Whatever." Coming towards him, she ducks under the torches that lights the windowless room. "Not doing that either."

Lightning hears the sounds of her own steps snap in her ear as she walks around the bench and takes a knee in front of him. Analytically, she picks up his left forearm, examining both the burn on his palm and the net of buckles and straps that hold his armor together. It's only after she realizes that he hasn't yanked his arm away yet that she lets her eyes roam higher – over black splatters of Cie'th blood and the blushing crusts of new burns – to rest on his face.

Beneath a patrician brow, his eyes go at a slow burn. His expression's all leashed up anger, but his lip-stain's smeared and it wrecks the effect. Grainy with ash, it's uneven in the middle, gummy at the edge.

The laugh she holds in her stomach is an annoying, rebellious little thing.

"Your lipstick's messed-up," Lightning mutters. "By the way."

Glaring at her, Kain wipes his mouth slowly with the back of his clawed hand. "You realize you are a deeply irritating woman."

Smirking, Lightning cocks her head. Looking back down again, she focuses on a random buckle and tries to figure how to deal with the clasp. She furrows her brow, unsure. Loosening it could go either way. Up or down. Push or pull.

"Right," she says eventually. "That one I've heard before."

"Do you have something to say, Lightning?" Kain finally pulls away. "Or are you simply here to pry?"

Looking up and into his eyes for the first time, she scowls. "Stop it, Kain. You know I didn't – "

"No." Kain interrupts with strangely graceful contempt. "I don't, in point of fact."

"Excuse me?" Something cold knots Lightning's stomach and her hands drop away. "What?"

"You heard me," he replies. "I don't. In fact, I'm coming to believe I know nothing of you."

"Are you fucking with me?" Whispered though it is, the question comes out an accusation_. _"After what I told you? After everything I said?"

"Truly, a remarkable confidence." Kain's lips snarl over the words. "A deathbed confession you'll not speak of again? Made only when I might offer nothing in return? No kindness or service? No strength of any kind?" His voice lowers to a mocking whisper, and he inclines his head in imitation regard. "Such honor, lady. Perhaps I might provide you some other means to humiliate me?"

"Kain." Lightning keeps her voice under control. It's hard though. Harder than it should be. "Enough."

"Know this." Kain ignores the demand, offers her eyes that are strange and raw in the torchlight. "I do not easily suffer hovering at my sickbed. Nor do I go any place without invitation. If you've nothing to say to me – " the still ash-smudged lips turn to the side "– I'd ask that you go."

Lightning readies herself for a fight. The usual words supply themselves unprompted. "Hell, Highwind." She digs her nails into her thighs. "This isn't even about you. It's – "

"No," he agrees, still furious, still staring right at her. "For once, you're right. This particular thing has nothing to do with me."

Lightning feels her lips twitch, ready to strike back. They're falling into this groove again, she can feel it. And it's a good place, filled with clean, sweet, powerful _pissed-off._ But just as she's about to let whatever it is she was going to say out of her mouth, she closes it. Forces herself to just wait.

_This isn't what I came here for. _She reminds herself she's got to stay calm. And if he's got to play nice, then so does she.

The moment stands still for a second, and she notices that the eyes he gives her are clear and bright and radiant with isolation. She doesn't want to see herself in them, but she does. She sees herself looking right back. _Fine then. Fair enough._

Despite herself, Lightning laughs. "Relax, Kain."

Confused, he blinks at her. This was clearly not the expected reaction. "Beg pardon?"

"I said _relax,_" she repeats, level and measured. "You can do that, right? Relax and listen, when you're not in a coma?"

Kain says nothing. Folds his hands. Tries to prove a point.

The silence pricks at her. "Look, I just came to say I shouldn't have blown you off like that." Collecting his forearm again, Lightning inhales, puts her gaze on the task at hand. "I did it on purpose. I didn't want you to – "

"To what?" Kain's voice is cagey, still on guard. It asks her if she still doesn't trust him, but that's not a question she feels like answering right now. He goes on. "What exactly would I have done?"

Exhaling, Lightning breathes through the mess of frustration that's clogging her throat. She goes back to the buckles. The buckles help. "I'm _stuck_ here, Kain," she goes on. "Things are getting worse, and I am fucking stuck here. Everyone was picking over me, and I _hate _that." She worries at the strap, finally feeling the leather slide out of the crease. "And you – I just didn't want any of your – "

"Again, what?" Kain interjects with exactly the same question. But his voice is softer this time. This time, he's really asking. "Is what I offer so poor? So threatening?"

"Look," she redirects. "I'm sorry, okay. That's all I came here to say."

"You're sorry?" She searches the words for smugness but doesn't find any.

"Yeah," she replies, resists asking him if he's deaf. "I'm sorry. You were trying to help. Thanks for trying to help."

Out of everything she wants to say, Lightning stops talking. _It's either he gets it or he doesn't_, she thinks, letting the quiet open up through the room. It's really the buckles she's concerned about now, anyway. They're stuck, some of them. It's a pain the ass trying to undo them all.

Nothing passes between them but silence and the smell of weapon oil. And torch-smoke. And sun-warmed steel. And sky.

Kain doesn't speak for a long time. He doesn't really need to. And Lightning doesn't need to look up to feel his eyes rake over her, lingering on the slope of her neck and the ridge of her collar for just a moment too long before settling, intent, on the bloody pulp of her brand.

His gaze is heavy and warm. He's not touching her, but it feels like he is.

"What?" She asks the question after a little too much time has passed. She'd forgotten her turtleneck was undone, and she shifts a bit, uncomfortable and a bit hot. "What do you want?"

"Don't cover yourself in front of me," he says, and the urbane lacquer in his voice is torn. "It's unnecessary."

"Really," she retorts sharply, ignoring the sweet, tight feeling that's coiling in her stomach. She's on the last buckle now. She's almost done. "I could say the same thing about you, Highwind."

A long pause is followed by a short chuckle. "Perhaps."

There's a kind of nervousness prickliness in the quiet that follows. Preemptively, Lightning readies a few different retorts: puts them right _there _on the tip of her tongue, ready to strike, but then realizes she doesn't know quite what she'd be attacking.

He's still staring at her. She probably shouldn't like it, but she does. She wouldn't mind him looking more, actually.

The last buckle undone, Kain's vambrace clatters to the ground.

Eventually, Lightning feels his uninjured left hand come up under her jaw and nudge her gaze upwards. With his still-injured right, he picks up her wrist and pulls her sharply forward so her waist is caged between his knees. She's about to mutter something sharp at him, but stops when he presses her fingers over the wide leather strap that crosses his torso and secures his pauldron.

"If you're going to help me remove my armor," he says, rough but gentle, like the thumb he's drawing back and forth over her jaw, "you oughtn't stop there."

Feeling her lip twitch, Lightning tightens her grip on the leather, uses it to pull herself up to so they're face-to-face. "C'mon Highwind," she challenges lowly. "Who said I was?"

What Lightning expects to happen after she feels Kain's warm laugh slither over her lips is pretty straightforward. She expects hands and mouths in various positions, she expects the crush of those arms, maybe, the flick of a cutting tongue, the press of a hard abdominal plane against her stomach. The world goes thick and overloud-seeming with desire, so when she hears it - a sharp, incongruent sound that's got nothing to do with what she's after - it doesn't make sense.

_Is that tapping?_ She pulls back in an instant, the moment a drop of water shattering on the floor. _It is._ And it's a quick, staccato click, click, click that rattles the edge of her skull.

_What? _"What?"

Lightning's on her feet in a second; Kain right behind. His face is a study in contradiction – half relieved, half anticipating, all confused.

"Impossible."

"The _hell,_" is all Lightning manages to say, stepping forward. Blinking, she can't tell if it's suspicion or relief that's racing the words up her throat. She's also not sure if she should be reaching for a weapon or screwing it and rushing ahead to take his hand. "What are you doing here?"

The man wearing the face of the Warrior of Light smiles, but the tapping goes on. And on. _And – _

"My friend," Kain's voice sounds as unsure as she's ever heard it. Shaking his head, questions spill out of his mouth. "Have you news? Of Cecil? Cosmos? The war? Are you – "

"I told you it wasn't your time to die, dragoon," the man cuts him off, indolent, droll. "And _please_, don't interrupt yourselves on my account. Just, if you wouldn't mind – I'm still getting used to this form again…"

Forgetting any earlier indecision about arming herself, Lightning decides on _weapon_ and pulls Enkindler out of its holster in one seamless motion. "Alright," she growls, out of patience. "Start talking."

Arching a brow, the man offers them both a wide flourishing bow that tells Lightning that whoever this guy is, he sure as hell isn't the Warrior of Light. The fingers on her grip tighten, and behind her, she hears Kain pull his hunting knife from its sheathe at his hip.

"Patience, patience, Warrior Goddess. We'll have more than enough time for that, I assure you." He grins, slow and bright. "But for now, could you please tell me where to find Minwu?"

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER:<strong> As Lightning's brand races across her chest, the battle for the Phantom Village begins. Also, Tifa Lockhart makes a choice, finding that the line between allies and enemies, old friends and new, is thinner than she ever thought.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

**A/N(1):** The ultimate moth-form Cie'th, Vercingetorix is Mission 64 in XIII. He's called the Doomherald of Paddra, and I have an elaborate headcanon for him because elaborate headcanons are fun. I view he and Caius as having crossed swords more than once, and his hatred of the fal'Cie as being revolutionary for its time – much in the same manner as the historical Vercingetorix, who challenged Roman rule.

**A/N(2):** My playthrough of VII involved Cloud on a date with Barret. I write angst and play crack. I also wanted the ability to win Mog dolls, but my PS1 wouldn't give it to me, hence the Mog Doll in Aerith's quarters.

**A/N(3): **Yeul is not included in the list of humans that the FNC gods view as relevant because there are fragments indicating the power to view the timeline is inherent in all people. Her elevated status is cultural. Caius is relevant only because he breaks the world. XIII-2 makes my head hurt.


	15. CXI: Between You and Me, Goodbye

Door of Souls, Chapter 11: Between You and Me, Goodbye

**Beta:** My beta's back. Dear Distant Glory, thank you for safety-netting this beast.  
><strong>Warning: <strong>Second act climax. Everything that entails.  
><strong>AN:** I have a FAQ for this piece. It has character and plot notes. If there's interest, I'll post it. Also, delay was for working in RotG and various business trips.  
><strong>Your support makes me blush: <strong>Hard to believe I've been at this almost a year. You have no idea how much your support means to me. Four more chaps and we are done.  
><strong>Extra credit, with extra love:<strong> The new cover to this piece is courtesy of zaz9-zaa0, who is deliriously talented. Also, saltedpin, you may recognize a concept here, since you were the first and best who meta'd with Plato. Anamnesis is brilliant on about sixteen different levels and people should go read it if they haven't already.

* * *

><p>"...<em>almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of 'psst' that you usually can't even hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you've tried to engineer<em>."

― David Foster Wallace, _Infinite Jest_

* * *

><p>Between Cid of the Lufaine and Minwu, the First Mage of Fynn, the Mirror of Atropos sits flat on the top of a desk. Its surface is flawless, but the reflections within it are not. They are choppy and conflicting, and they cannot be trusted.<p>

Even an ordinary mirror is the most skilled of liars, after all. And this is no ordinary mirror. It tells stories about the men who look in it that are at best, vague and self-contradictory; at worst, something close to true.

They are compatriots at a common cause or scholars enmeshed in debate. They are friends and mortal enemies or servants and lords. They are generals of opposing armies, and today they play at war.

Minwu asks a question. No, he sneers it. "What do you want here, Cid?" The words scratch; the air flinches. "This is not what was agreed."

"Perhaps not. But it seems you require the assistance." A smile gathers, unused to itself, on the face that now rightly belongs to the Warrior of Light. "And what husband wouldn't wish to do a favor for his wife?"

Irritated, Minwu almost scoffs at the sentiment. Is it disgust he feels? Resentment? Or only hate? The words are sour. He spits them out.

"Your wife is dead."

"Is she?" Cid considers the statement, tips a brow. The way he inclines his head on his neck seems out-of-practice and wrong. "Cosmos is merely Sarah ascended, and I have been with her longer and more intimately, I think." He pauses, and eyes the color of nothing glint, analyze, conclude, "We are more kindred, I believe, if somewhat less in love."

"A transfer of memory is not the transfer of a soul." The words are intended to cut, but Minwu knows they will fail. "All life is unique, even that of a manikin."

"Isn't the soul immortal?" Cid taunts. "Isn't all learning simple recollection of what the soul forgot? Or so the ancients say."

Minwu promises himself he will not be goaded, but willpower is a slippery thing today. "You pervert the most sacred philosophies of the Lufaine."

"All science is perversion in a sense," Cid retorts, sparing a glance at the Mirror but paying no attention to what he sees. "The isolation and manipulation of two variables out of the thousands at play in a natural state." He smiles. It's wrongly shaped. "One only hopes it is useful."

Minwu uses all the strength he has ever had to restrain the spells that crackle in wait beneath the his fingers. It would be almost too easy to make an attempt to end it here. If the Lufenian dares to show himself here in flesh and blood, there are certainly ways to reacquaint him with the frailties of the form.

Closing his eyes, Minwu clenches his fist over Poison and is grateful that the cowl hides the sneer that warps his face.

"Now, now Minwu. Surely we know each other better than all that." Cid's voice is a bored legato slide over _tap, tap, tap. _"And besides, if my memory does not fail me, I thought the first duty of White Magic was to do no harm?"

Inclining his head, Minwu presses his casting hand to his chest. His only visible response still more _tap, tap, tap _is a slow-moving blink. "It was just an idle spell, Cid." _Tap. _"A test, really." _Tap. _"To see if you could sense it. Ensure this transfer was more stable than your last." _Tap. Tap. _"We did have difficulties with the process, you'll recall."

A disaffected smile is followed by a florid bow. "Clearly," he allows, still tapping. "But this body is a temporary accommodation, borne of necessity. You know I cannot perform anything but the most general magic without one. Besides – " he stretches, " – I've lost my taste for humanity, I think. It's inefficient for my purposes."

The fear of a hunted thing holds Minwu perfectly still. At this point, any change in his demeanor can betray him. And if the Lufenian catches even a glimpse of it – the meanest impression that some plot to betray Shinryu exists beyond his reckoning – he will panic. Then he will find a way kill them all.

Which of course, will be their fate nonetheless, if the Dragon finds him here when Cosmos begins her final play.

_And so a tightrope becomes the cutting edge of a knife_. The thought twists in Minwu's gut and shreds what remains of his reasoning. He has paved the road to ruin with all his good intentions, and the wretched arrogance of it all will cost them everything. _Unless Cid can be forced from this place. _

_Unless – _

As the beginning of a plan folds itself into his mind, Minwu refuses the indulgence of a smile. It borders on delusional, this first gambit in this final match. _And clearly_ _the timing will be everything_. But then again, such is the nature of any game played for worthy stakes.

At the window of his study, a cluster of Cie'th arms rap and claw at the edges of the Protection, and Minwu finds himself remembering Ellone: her strength and her prescience, her simple faith in the importance of loved ones, however imperfect they may be.

"_Isn't it the most ordinary thing in the world, to do something for your family?"_

If it weren't so dangerous, Minwu might be tempted to answer aloud, or to send the thought to her, wherever she is on her world. _Perhaps, child. Perhaps it is at that._

"Oh?" By the time Minwu finally responds, he's nearly forgotten the bloated contempt in Cid's last statement. "You find the Warrior's body limiting, then?"

The pitchy, out-of-practice laugh Cid laughs is like the grinding of many nails. "I suppose he has been using it longer than I have," he concedes. "But I would say it's more distracting than limiting. Honestly Minwu, how do you get anything done like this? These needs and emotions of yours all seem horribly maladaptive."

"If you'd prefer to return to Dissidia," Minwu offers, "Do not feel restrained by me. Besides, you're aware you are flirting with Shinryu's wrath."

Cid's colorless eyes gleam with embedded crystal. "I told you once I do not fear him. I will not tell you again." The taps grow sharper and intentional, and they tease apart Minwu's nerves. "Remember that this body does not cage the whole of my will. And in this state, you will never be able lift Lightning's brand by yourself. Your pyrotechnics left you significantly diminished. And then there was the Curse..." He pauses. "I ought to have remembered to relax it for a time. I am sorry about that."

Minwu raises his head, and hatred strains at its leash. "There's no need for assistance or apology," he says, telling the truth. "I believe I've solved the riddle of Etro's fragment. If you only lift your veil enough for Yuna to truly assist Aerith and me, it would be enough. As it stands, she can still Call and Send, but if she had access to more conventional casting, it would be very helpful."

The expression on Cid's unused face is nearly illegible, but Minwu can nevertheless see it pinch and tighten in little gestures of panic. "You realize I cannot do that."

"And why not?" Minwu makes a show of slowly raising a brow. He knows the answer, but strategy is about position. "Lightning has cast through it already, and recall, it was Shinryu himself that laid Bahamut low. Surely he must know you've already bent the rules, so how great could your risk truly be? And as you said," he adds, daring, "you've no fear."

Cid straightens. He's dressed the Warrior's body in leather breeches and plain linen tunic, and a sword he doesn't know how to use hangs limp at his hip. Minwu almost laughs as his hand goes to it now, aping threat.

Oh, how Minwu remembers the forty-times-damned class arguments. Thief or black mage, warrior or white. _"One's job is one's destiny. We have to choose carefully."_

Warrior had been deemed the cleanest choice. Cid had the scholar's fetish for strength, and had come to enjoy the fantasy of himself riding into Cornelia with the Barbarian's Sword gleaming on his back.

How different might such light be, Minwu thinks with a twinge of self-mockery, than that which festers now on the visible inch of Cid's blade?_ Not much, _he concludes_. _The sun shines on saints and sinners alike. In itself, it makes no distinctions between good and evil, redemption and loss.

"Do not test my patience Minwu." Cid finally says, far-seeing gaze finally fastened on the man in front of him. "Such things are thus far beneath his notice, but the past does not predict the future. Statistics have nothing to say on the outcome of any individual case." His words pass through barely parted lips; his glare through narrow eyes. "I can supplement your power sufficiently. The Summoner is not necessary and would only attract undue attention. We cannot risk the integrity of Dissidia on such a thing."

"The integrity of Dissidia," Minwu makes sure to sound as indifferent as possible, even though this will likely prove to be a critical feint, "will not mean much if the Protection fails. Tell me, if our experiments are able to overwhelm it, as they so recently did, what's to stop them from taking the Laboratory? In high enough numbers, the crystal ore in their flesh lets them pass through Shinryu's magic with little resistance." Trailing a long finger over the Mirror's filigreed border, he notes, "It seems we failed to take into that into account."

Cid's gaze flickers down to the Mirror then up to the window where the dead hands claw. For a moment, the tapping stops but then it then resumes, stronger than before.

_Tap. _

_Tap._

"Minwu," he responds eventually, as if he is explaining a very simple matter to a very stupid child. "This has little or nothing to do with lifting the veil on your High Summoner. The intent of my coming here was to assist you, to make certain this task was adequately discharged." His voice goes still and cold, and the hand stays improperly poised on the hilt of his blade. "I would hope you are not keeping something from me."

"Wouldn't you know if I were?" Minwu shrugs. "But really Cid. It's only a matter of efficiency. Tell me, do you see anything sensible in the Mirror?" Reaching over, he presses a cool finger to the glass. He is glad it doesn't shake. He will force it not to shake. "If you can, then perhaps there is no need for Yuna."

Cid's eyes are lazy and unconcerned as they drift from Minwu's face to where his finger rests on the glass. Since he arrived here some few days ago, he's been more focused on Lightning and the sentient crystal inside her brand than anything else. He'd insisted he'd not known about its more potent qualities – its capacity for rudimentary thought, the way it self-regenerates and spreads, reanimates the cells of the dead. If he had, he'd said, he might have found a way to infuse the Warrior with them.

They seem quite useful, after all.

Of course, now that he is finally looking, perhaps Cid sees the point. That the Mirror of Atropos is not a mere scalpel to cut away an infection. Although panic coils in Minwu's stomach when he realizes that the Lufenian could just as easily see the truth. The only thing that keeps him from losing his composure entirely is history.

Cid of the Lufaine has never been one to recognize the most obvious things.

By some unknown mercy, the tapping finally stops and the First Mage of Fynn cannot tell if what he feels is relief or terror. He forces himself to stay still and reserved, to slide into the silence the way that melody slides into music, or Aerith's cool, small hand slides over his skin.

_Aerith. _At the moment, Minwu has very few thoughts to spare. But he would give much, he thinks, to hear her laugh again. To give her back some of what this charade has taken from her.

"What an utter morass," Cid mutters, scratching his head. The momentary respite ended, he resumes: _tap, tap, tap – _"Such a nonsense world, Nova Crystallis. You've found a way through it then, I trust?"

"I have." Minwu agrees, speaking slowly. "And I suspect teaching someone other than Yuna to navigate it would be time consuming. Even Aerith lacks her skill in the between realms."

"Mm." Cid is not paying attention, eyes lost in reflection. "Nothing I cannot handle in this form, Minwu. This model was optimized for magecraft."

Imperceptibly, Minwu's hands tense on his desk. Everything relies on Yuna. If Cid is permitted into the Mirror – to truly see what it holds – then none of them will leave the Phantom Village alive. He tries another tack. _Or twists the screw._

"Oh." The sound escapes Minwu's lips like an afterthought, but it's nevertheless sharp enough to catch Cid's attention. "You mention the models – I'd almost forgotten. I've a message for you, from Cosmos."

"Really?" Cid cocks his head, loses interest in what the Mirror shows him. "I've forgotten how long it has been since we last spoke directly. Tell me – " he blinks " – what could she possibly have to say to me that she felt the need to relay through you?"

"She was very specific." Minwu words devise a trap that he hopes he does not does lose his own leg in. "She asked for me to tell you that she remembers. And also – " uncomfortable, his eyes go back to the lies of the mirror " – that she's not angry anymore."

A moment passes and the silence thickens. _Tap. _Cid stares at him. _Tap. _No, examines. _Tap._

"Is that so?" Cid's voice has tightened, and the muscles in the Warrior's stolen body follow. "And what exactly does she mean by that?"

At this, Minwu sneers, and for perhaps the first time in nearly a century, he speaks to Cid of the Lufaine without forethought. "I would think," he says, looking up, "that you should know better than I."

The tapping comes to a stop again. And even though Minwu has braced for its return, it doesn't come. The only ripple in the silence is the beating of Cie'th wings at the window, arterial and insistent, more alive than any care to admit.

"Perhaps that is true. But still, if I find there is more to this than you suggest, First Mage. _Any_ of this." Threat incubates in Cid's voice, but Minwu has heard such things before and does not care. "You may make things somewhat difficult for yourself, later."

"Cid," Minwu answers with less than a beat's pause, "to this point, all I have suggested is that you permit Yuna some space to cast at full strength so that we may move on quickly. What passes between you and your wife is none of my concern. If you are so curious," he offers, acidic, "you might return to Dissidia to ask her."

Cid's expression sharpens, quite obviously weighing risk and reward, and inanely Minwu wonders if all gods look so foolish when thinking.

He cannot help but wonder too, if there is any prayer that this will work. If any part of Cid remains that is human enough to remember that there was a time when he cared for other matters. When he spoke of affection with something less than brutal irony. And even if he does, whether it is not rank folly to risk so much on something as tragically frail as a man's heart.

"Very well, Minwu," Cid relents. "In the interests of time, I will relax the veil around Yuna of Spira. But I will stay here nonetheless. To reinforce the Protection." His voice is as level and expressionless as his smile. "And to see that you remain a man of your word."

To smile back would be too much, so Minwu only nods. "Have you ever known me to be anything else?"

"To be frank, Minwu," he responds, crossing his arms. "At the moment, I honestly do not know."

There is a second where Minwu feels concern, but it is only a second, and it passes. Whether Cid suspects or not is immaterial now. The wagers have been set. All that remains is to cast the dice.

"I have never heard you say that before," is all he bothers to say.

"I hope you enjoyed it." Relentless as always, Cid starts tapping again, although the sound is not so sharp, this time. "You will not hear it twice."

Across the Mirror, they look at each other, caged in spokes of spoiled light. They do not speak again.

* * *

><p>Sticky with sweat, and sitting with her head resting lightly on the training room wall, Lightning Farron takes a sip of Tifa's 'Dwarven Delight' – <em>or whatever the hell she's calling what she mixed for them<em> – and takes stock of the world beyond the window.

Between the emaciated buildings and the fever-eyed Cie'th, it's jaundiced out there. _A city on life support._ Shivering as sweat dries on her abs, she tries not to think about it too hard. Instead, she focuses on the play of light and shadow: dark bowing to bright, waltzing together at the end of the road.

_Dancing disaster. _As pretty as desolation gets.

Lightning's still not used to it. But then again, she's also not used to the freak wearing the Warrior of Light's skin, or the bubbling hives on her brand, or the fact she's about fifteen minutes late for some stupidly risky magic trick that'll either kill her or set her free, so in the end she just adds it to the pile.

Following her eyes, Tifa fidgets with a loose string on the hem of her skirt. "Kinda looks like the sky's falling, doesn't it?"

"A bit," Lightning answers. She doesn't mention that she's pretty familiar with what the sky looks like when it's falling, and that this is worse. At least when everything's coming down, something changes, moves, is never the same again. _But that's neither here nor there. _Taking another sip, she scowls. "This tastes awful, by the way."

Nudging her gently with a shoulder, Tifa tries to sound indignant. "Hey," she says. "I'd like to see _you_ do better with just Dwarven ale and gyshal greens. Besides – " she smiles, impish " – it's good to have something hearty after a workout. And you realize that Yuna and Aerith threatened to Toad me if I snuck you any booze or sparred with you before they zapped your brand off." Pausing, she tosses a lock of sweaty hair from her face. "And really, I'm not a very nice looking Toad."

Lightning breathes a clipped laugh through her nose, ignores the thump of Cie'th at the window. "Serves you right," she retorts, smirking over the rim of her cup, "for turning me in to the bloody white mage Gestapo."

For a moment Tifa looks grave, and suddenly Lightning's afraid she might go there, spout some cloying platitude like: 'it was for your own good', or 'you know it had to be done' or even worse 'everything happens for a reason'. But then she says what she's going to say, and it's just fine again. Like it's perfectly normal to be sitting here, having a drink in the doomed city, shooting the shit while the world breaks down.

"It was either you or me, buddy," Tifa replies, flip. "Girl's got to look out for herself first." Pausing she considers, and the concern that flashes over her face is one hundred percent genuine. "And I think it was _Pig_ that time…" Tucking up her knees, she rests her cheek on them and knots her brows. "I look even worse as a Pig."

Completely despite herself, Lightning lets out a short, ringing laugh; wonders how she got along without friends like this, back on Cocoon. After her mum died, she'd had barracks friends, sure, but not a hell of a lot of girlfriends. _Well, none, unless you counted Serah_. Her only real friends were the ones she changed – _broke? Saved? Who knows –_ everything with. The ones still dreaming in crystal, a universe and a day away.

_Thanks guys,_ she throws the thought off like a penny into a wishing well. _I miss you._ But after a second, Lightning can't tell if she's talking to Fang and Vanille or to her fellow refugees from Dissidia. The people stranded with her in the here and now, even though she hasn't lost them yet.

_Not yet. _The words flit over her mind, little agitated moths._ And maybe…maybe there's a __**chance**__…_

Lightning stops herself from going any further. There's every reason to doubt everything about this bullshit procedure. _Mirror of Atropos, my ass. _It's an impossible promise from an untrustworthy source, but still. There's not a lot of options on the table. And she's still soldier enough to know when it's time to choose a bad option over a worse one. Besides, walking out wounded beats lying down and dying every time.

_No_. She takes another sip of her drink before putting it down on the mat. _The only way out is through._ And before she makes it out of this, any thoughts about a life on the other side of tomorrow's just another liability.

_Time to go Farron, _she orders herself. But her legs are insubordinate. They keep her sitting here, for a little while longer. _Five more minutes._ It's a childish thought, but it doesn't stop her from thinking it.

"Hey." Tifa's voice blows the fog off Lightning's mind. "It wasn't _that_ funny, you know. I'm not so keen on turning into Kung-Fu Piggy."

Chuckling again softly, Lightning shakes her head. "Don't be so vain, Lockhart. Though you might want to think about changing that mini-skirt." She smirks. "Might not have the legs for it anymore."

Scoffing, Tifa pushes her lightly with her shoulder before looping their arms together and squeezing. "You're mean, Light," she says. "Just mean."

"I wouldn't quite say that." It's Kain's low, laconic drawl that startles Lightning's eyes towards the door. She's still got no idea how he moves so quietly in that armor, even if he's only got the bottom half of it on. "Not 'just' at any rate. She's a few other talents."

"Kain!" Tifa blurts, jumping to her feet and looking confused. "I thought you and Laguna were out on patrol."

"We were," Kain replies, walking up to them. And as he leaves the shadows of the hallway, Lightning notices for the first time that his hair's knotted back severely, and that his face in the yellow light doesn't have anywhere to hide. She sees everything she needs to, from the grim lines around his mouth to the grey depressions under clear, weary eyes.

_He's exhausted. _But he's always exhausted, and Lightning suppresses the sudden, ridiculous thought that it might be nice if they could take take a second, maybe rest for a while.

"…And?" Tifa prompts, sounding worried. "You never come back early. Is the Protection failing again…I mean…" She notes the carbon staining his armor and makes a quick decision. "I'll go get Aerith. Minwu's still really weak, but if we've got to – "

"No." Kain's interrupting Tifa but he's still looking at Lightning. To his credit, he doesn't flinch when he lets his gaze drop momentarily to where the tines of her brand infect her skin, scrawl red and black disaster from her left breast to the hollow under her collar. "There's no need. It's only that I've matters to attend here."

Pushing herself up off the ground, Lightning comes to her feet. "Like what, Kain?" she asks, and the words nearly stall in her throat. It should probably be easier to talk to him than it is, but words are mostly useless for anything important. "You know I've got to go."

"You do," he agrees, and she can't figure out the dip in his voice. "But not now." Turning to Tifa for the first time, he inclines his head. "If you'd spare us a moment."

The flush on Tifa's cheeks is a different shade of red than the one she got from sparring. "Of course, Kain. I wouldn't have thought you – but I mean – sure. Sure." She glimpses nervously at Lightning. "If you don't mind."

Shaking her head, Lightning feels her lips twitch up a little. "No," she tells the truth. "Thanks. I'm good."

Tifa's got to bite down on her smile. "Alright," she agrees, edging past Lightning to put her hand on Kain's shoulder. "Just don't take too long. I already made her late, and Yuna – "

"I'll not take too much time," Kain cuts her off gracefully, offering her a brief, unguarded twist of his lip. "I've had warning of the various curses on your head. Though our packs seem sturdy enough for Toads and Pigs alike, provided you don't squirm – "

The hand on Kain's shoulder balls into a fist, and she smacks him – casually, and pretty hard, like she's done it few times before – as she heads out the door. "You know what," she calls back, "you're right, Light. You really do kinda want to shoot him, after a while."

Lightning waits for the warmth of Tifa's presence to fade out of the room before taking a step towards him. She can see he's wounded in a few new places, even if he seems pretty indifferent to the blood that's seeping through a reopened wound at his neck. Unnoticed, fresh redness traces the stark tendons beneath his jaw, marks the birth of another scar.

Before she can stop herself, Lightning reaches out to him, feels half-dry blood tack on her skin. And while she gets it – why he never, ever stops – a part of her wishes he wouldn't do this to himself. It won't help him get where he wants to go_._

Withdrawing her hand, "You're hurt," is all she says.

"It's shallow." Kain stares at her fingers, brushes off her concern. He comes close to touching her but he doesn't. "Are you ready?"

"No," she replies. "Doesn't really matter though. You're never ready for anything that counts."

"Mm." Lightning watches him swallow before taking a step forward. He does pick up her hand this time, and the touch is the first they've shared since the armory, and the first that seems, Lightning doesn't know, almost soft. Shy's the better word, actually, but that seems borderline nuts. "That's one way of thinking about it, I suppose."

It's Lightning's turn to swallow. She doesn't know if she can do this. Not now. Not with him. Since that imitation Warrior showed up, it's all been nice, easy chaos. Aerith and Minwu and Yuna on edge, keeping her as far away from him and his cold crystal eyes as possible. Tifa and Kain and Laguna and Vaan in rotating patrols to beat back the Cie'th that keep coming and coming: toxic froth that leads a flood…

In a way, she was happy they got interrupted. There wasn't any time for hellos or goodbyes. And nothing can end that doesn't start.

"There's a job to do out there, Highwind." Against her will, her fingers curl into his. She notices his nail polish is chipped, but she doesn't say anything. She just runs her thumb over the cracks. "Why'd you come back?"

"You know the answer to that," he replies, and it's true. He came back because he's already come back for them twice when he didn't have to. Once in Dissidia. Once here. But those were for other reasons, she figures. Or maybe not. She doesn't know.

He looks at her for a moment, and his eyes still ask, _"Do you trust me? Do you trust me now?"_

She still can't say. She's not sure she knows. All the easy answers don't fit anymore.

Blinking away, Lightning tries to find a safe place to put her eyes. "I guess."

"And also – " He stops, uses the hand that's not holding hers to collect something from the crease of his doublet, a piece of cloth she's seen only once before, in another place, another night, after some other terror. Something he'd used to help her feel better, she realizes now, the only way he knew how. "I'd wanted – " he starts, hoarse, "I'd thought – "

He holds the kerchief unsteadily. It's still stained with grease from her gunblade. It's still everything he has of home.

Lightning almost backs away. _It's too much. _Too much and too little and too damn late, and unless it's blowing things to high hell, she's never been so hot with extremes.

She thinks she says, "Kain, no", but she doesn't. Her mouth goes dry and then the moment's all breathing and quiet and one more thing to lose.

"I can't help you in this. I've not the weapons to assist. But there are tokens…" He presses the cloth into her hand. "Take it." The words catch on a self-mocking laugh. "By custom, men of Baron offer scarves. I've nothing, but I – " He clears his throat. "I'd consider it an honor if…"

Lightning doesn't know if he trails off on purpose, or if there's something in the way she looks at the cloth in her hand that stills his words. Haggard with stains, she can almost see the weariness in the cloth, where it's worn thin and ragged from being pressed so close to his chest.

_There's a whole life here_. Everything she needs to know. And though he won't talk to her about it, she figures it's right there in front of her now, if she wants to look. _All the important parts, anyway._ The parts about red wings and white mages and long lost spears. About stains that won't come out.

She closes the rag in her fist. She doesn't know what to say, or if people even say things when someone gives them something like this. "I can't." Lightning suddenly feels like she's taken straight shots of molasses. "I – "

Kain's hands drop immediately, but not so fast as his expression locks shut. His voice goes calculated, neutral. "My apologies. I took liberties. I know it's hardly – "

"It's not that_, _Kain," she snaps the response when she doesn't intend to. She wonders how he still doesn't get it; how he seems to understand everything about her except what she waves in front of his face. Softening her voice, she raises her eyes. "It's – this is _yours_. You don't just throw something like this – " Taking a quick breath in, she starts again. "You should keep it. It's important to you."

"It is quite obviously important to me." Kain's voice is so soft, Lightning's got to strain to hear it. His clawed hand tenses, and sinew cords up his forearm, visible through the cloth. "That is the reason I offer it." He stops, and Lightning thinks he could be angry, the way the next words leave his mouth like chewed-up stone. "Do you refuse?"

It's as if the question itself were made of frost. It pricks the small hairs on her arms, raises goosebumps through a glaze of sweat, sharpens the heat that's ranging around in her nerves with nowhere to go.

_Refuse what?_ Lightning's mind stalls for time. She pretends she doesn't know what he's talking about, but the truth is she does. She knows exactly he means. What she doesn't know is if it's possible. With him. With her. With so little time left, probably, either way.

Just sex would be one thing, but whatever this is, it's not that. _Damn it. _

Fidgeting, she rolls the cloth between her fingers, and the imperfections in the texture come alive. All the blood and sweat and torn stitching; threads that can't be resewn. A tug in the right direction is all it would take for the whole thing to unravel; for it all to come to pieces in her hand.

_Grease and oil and dirt. _But the fabric's still soft, still fine. Woven from an ancient loom in an abandoned past, it's an ordinary thing from a magic city, and it seems so lonely in its borrowed power.

"Well?" The word sounds injured. It throbs.

Lightning doesn't reply, bunches the kerchief in her palm. She feels the seconds tick by and she wonders. She wonders who this man really is, under all the blood and stone. If he meant to miss, when he aimed his spear at her neck. If the person he betrayed in Dissidia was even her, at all. If he's really as sad and tired as she thinks he might be.

The air thins and tightens; a tripwire between yes and no.

Kain makes a quick noise of vicious disgust. He's half turned away when she grabs him, her hands moving faster than her thoughts. Balling his tunic in her fists, she pulls him back. He's not turning his back on her one more time.

Still inches apart, they've never been so close. And he's still waiting for her reply.

"What kind of stupid question is that?" she finally says. The words would quiver on Lightning's breath if everything didn't suddenly feel so liquid. All hesitation dissolved, she leans forward, bites the rest of the challenge into a stern lower lip, "Seriously, Highwind. Am I not making myself clear, or are you really that dense?"

Other than the hand he uses to find her belt and yank her forward, Kain stays still and cool as granite, and Lightning's navel tenses as his thumb grazes the patch of skin where leather hugs her low belly. He waits. Considers. Breathes in the same air she breathes out.

"Perhaps I am," he mutters at last. The words travel from low in his throat to screw down into the sudden tightness in her stomach. He keeps talking, words warm into an already parted mouth. "I suggest you convince me."

Lightning doesn't know exactly why she smiles.

The kiss isn't what she expects, not the way it was the first time. Then it was all war; all hardness and metal and _now_; all bitter, naked need. This is deeper, more intense; and the heavy slide of his tongue on hers savors as much as it demands. Slick want unribbons through her, melts things she didn't realize were frozen, and before she knows it, she's flowing with it, leaning into the body in front of her because fuck if she's got any other place to go.

_There's nothing._ For a second, there's no space between them and there's no thoughts in her mind except _this, here, now._ She doesn't think that this is maybe the best she can hope for, all she might get. This broken knight; this unreal city; this second, fragile as glass and a thousand times more likely to break.

When Kain ends the kiss, his clawed hand stays fisted in her hair. He presses her brow to his jaw, so his eyes are nowhere to be found.

They say nothing because there's nothing to say. Beginnings and endings hang between them, cruel and beautiful as new snow. _It's a joke,_ she thinks, raising her hand to his face and closing the world from her eyes. _Malicious bitch of a joke._

She wants to say something to him. For what it's worth, she wants to give him something back. "Kain – "

"Say nothing." The interruption is swift and precise, and voice and grip are stone. "Tell me later." An order or a promise, she can't tell. "Tell me when you return."

Swollen and sore, her lips don't move over any words that really work. So instead, she just traces the cord of muscle that knots in his jaw and mutters, "Sure. Right. Okay."

He captures her hand with his. It doesn't close all the way, but he tries. He tries as hard as he can. Beneath her breast, his heartbeat pounds on hers; steady but fast, traitorous to the end.

"Go," he whispers, even though he still hasn't let her go. "I will see you shortly."

Lightning only nods, presses her lips undemandingly into the injured skin of his neck. He tastes of blood and steel and dangerous things. _It's risky,_ she thinks, still not quite ready to break away. It's way too risky to believe him, but she does it anyway.

* * *

><p>Tifa Lockhart lingers just a little while longer than she should outside the training room, her head cocked slightly towards the door.<p>

She hears: the low sounds of secret-telling; the blocks and blows of two guarded people, finding their way to something a little like safe. She bites down on her smile and feels sort of like a voyeur, but still, she waits. She waits, and she listens because it's good be around when something nice begins. _Nibelhiem's sky lilies_. The thought comes to mind for the first time since she came to train at Zangan's feet. Pretty because they shouldn't really be there – alive where the air's so thin.

She remembers how guarded Kain was, when she'd asked him to apologize to her. When watching them hurt each other got to be too much to watch. "Why don't you say you're sorry?" she'd said, that one lonely night by the fire. "She does care about you, you know."

"Unwise," he'd replied, staring stubbornly east. But there was a dip in his voice as he said it, like there was when he said Cecil's name. But he'd listened; he'd listened all the same.

Tifa makes sure to start down the hall before she overhears too much. There are some things that a girl should leave private, she thinks.

The sound of her own footsteps is all that keeps her company as she walks down the hall towards the infirmary. It echoes, and Tifa can't help but think it sounds so severe and final: the dumb thud of rubber on stone. Like she's walking the halls of a prison or something, or maybe some other place that there's no going back from.

Of course, it's true, in a way. Once Lightning goes in that room, she's either coming out healed or she's not coming back at all. Yuna explained it all yesterday – hushed and in the privacy of Tifa's room, just the three of them – and the words spread sticky fingers of fear in her chest.

"Light," she'd whispered. "I'm going to have to lead you through this tomorrow. Once you step into the mirror…there's only one way out."

Even the memory makes Tifa feel cold. For some reason, she remembers the way Yuna's hands didn't move in her lap. "But why?"

"It's just…a lot of stress," she'd answered, sad and resigned as Tifa's ever seen her. "If it doesn't work, then Light's brand…It'll be like the Ruins again. Or the desert. We'll have to…we'll – "

"You'll do what needs to be done." It was Lightning who said it. But nobody disagreed.

Tifa closes her eyes and doesn't think about it. She tells herself it's not an option, that there's no way that they've gotten through everything so far just to kill their friend. But she knows that it is. That it's possible because the only thing she can trust here in the Rift is the fact that they're not safe. And that everything and everyone can lie.

Even Aerith. Nervous, she spins Vaan's ring in her pocket. _Even me._

Closing the distance between her and the infirmary, Tifa can't believe how sick of it she is. Not understanding. Being left out of every single important thing. And if one way or another, everything's going to change after this – for Light, for everyone – then she's got to play her part too. Even if it means she won't have so many friends, anymore.

_It's weird_, she thinks as she catches sight of Aerith laying Protect materia around the door. _How the little differences matter._ Just because things are okay, doesn't mean they're right. Just because you love someone, doesn't mean you should believe them all the time.

It's a good conclusion, she's pretty sure. That said, by the time she makes her way to the sick room, Tifa still doesn't know if she's thinking of Vaan or Aerith or Cloud or herself.

"Hey there." Tifa taps Aerith gently on the shoulder. "You okay?"

A quick inhalation gives away Aerith's surprise. "Yeah," she replies, turning abruptly. Tifa can't get over how tired she looks; a wind-up person, almost all out of spring. Her eyes look painted-on. "Just finishing up here."

"I don't know." Tifa tightens her grip, feels the bones of her shoulder poke up under her skin. "You look a little pale. Can I help?"

"Wish you could, Missy," Aerith replies. She's trying to sound bright but it's failing. "But thanks for asking, anyway. Where's Lightning? We're all set here, _finally_…." She sighs, rubs her temple. "I just need to get Yuna and Minwu."

"Um." Tifa can't help the grin that plays with the sides of her lips. "She's with Kain. I think maybe we should give them a bit longer."

The smile that shows up on Aerith's face looks frail, but it's nice anyway. It seems like a hundred years since Tifa's seen her smile. _This genuinely, at least. _"Okay," she replies, voice softening. "I'll give them a few minutes, but that's got to be it. No funny business. The timing's _so _important_…_" Trailing off, her gaze narrow and sharpens: takes in the sweat on her brow, the ponytail her hair's tied back in. "Hey, wait a second. Why are you so sweaty?" She folds her arms. "I told you not to – "

"It was only a _little _sparring," Tifa confesses right away, taking a half step back. She can't remember if Laguna managed to smuggle her a few extra Maiden's Kisses or not. _Crap._ "And a_ little_ drink. There was more greens in it than alcohol, I promise, and I made it grossso she wouldn't – "

"Oh, relax." It's a soft, musical laugh that Aerith laughs, and it seems out of place coming from such thin, drawn lips. "I'm not going to Toad you. Now _Mini_…"

"Hey, no fair." Tifa jumps in, a little awkwardly and a little too soon, but happy that things seem almost normal with them again. She's so grateful that she nearly wants to forget about the ring burning a hole in her pocket. "That's cheating."

Folding her arms, Aerith tosses her braid in fake indignation. "Turnaround's fair play, Missy. Remember how you and Yuffie sabotaged all my stuff from Wall Market?" she points out. "And besides, Mini's not so bad. Then I could just keep you in my pocket." Tifa thinks she hears something deep and sad come into her voice. "I wouldn't have to worry about you anymore."

Tifa feels the smile come off her face. "Hey. Wait." She grasps at the kindness she thinks she just heard. "What do you mean, Aerith?"

"…Nothing." Aerith eyes go suddenly bright, and she lets out a short sigh. "Just that – nothing. I'm a little tired, that's all," she says. All business suddenly, she brushes tiny hands against her shift and starts to turn towards the First Mage's chambers. "It' been long enough now. Why don't you go get Lightning? Everything'll be fine."

"But…" A warm frustration builds in Tifa's chest. "Aerith, I was asking you a question."

"I know, honey." Aerith's got that brisk tone in her voice now, the one that means she's going to run away. "I don't have time – "

"Stop it." Balling her fists in her pocket, for once, Tifa doesn't feel bad or intimidated or guilty. For once, all she wants is a real answer. Swallowing her anxiety, she exhales and says it. She _finally_ just says it, and as she speaks, she wonders if they'll ever be close again.

_Or maybe we never were. _The thought doesn't break her heart as much as she thought it might. But then again, she thinks she's ready for the truth, now. No matter what it might screw up for good.

"Why are you lying to me, Aerith?" She wonders if the question sounds as slow as it feels. "I thought…I thought we were friends."

Aerith freezes. "Excuse me?"

"It's just…" Tifa keeps talking because if she stops she's sure she'll lose her nerve. "I found Vaan's ring. And you've been acting so weird. And I…I know you've been under stress and I can see you and Minwu talking all the time time, and I …" She hauls in a big suck of air, hopes it'll push down the lump in her chest. "You're _lying_ to me. I know you are. And I…I want you to tell me the truth."

It takes Aerith a long, long time to turn around. So long, that for a second, Tifa wonders if she really just said what she said. That she really accused the girl who's saved more lives than she can count of being the type of person who lies to her best friend's face. But then Aerith finally looks at her, and her eyes are the green of forests on fire.

"You have no idea the kind of danger you're in, Tifa." Aerith speaks in a harsh whisper. "And the Lufenian is here. He's right here under our noses. You have _got_ to stop talking. If he hears you…"

"But I haven't _been _talking." Tifa interrupts, and it seems like the words are coming out of her mouth without permission. Like she's hearing herself say them. "I haven't said anything this whole time, because I trust you. But I can't just keep doing that without knowing the truth. You've got Light's life in your hands…and Vaan…" her voice hits a curb. "They're my friends too, Aerith. I've got to protect them too – "

"You don't understand." The voice that cuts her off is hard enough to bruise, and suddenly Tifa sees clearly something she never had before. That there was always steel in Aerith Gainsborough; always something there that wouldn't give way, no matter how hard anyone pushed on it. "Listen to me. Everything's a mess right now. If I – If we – He's _here,_ don't you understand? Don't you know what's at stake?"

Tifa blinks but doesn't look away. "No I don't," she answers steadily. "I don't because you didn't tell me. And I can't let you keep hiding things from us like this." The tears starting in her eyes smooth the sharp edges of the world. "It's wrong of you."

"Sometimes you have to be wrong to be right. And being right doesn't mean being perfect." Aerith draws the same little distinctions she did, except different ones. Ones Tifa – for once – just doesn't believe. "I'm doing all of this for you. _Everything _I ever did, I did for you. For our friends." It's as if she's pleading, but Tifa knows she's not. "I didn't do any of it for me."

It's odd, but Tifa doesn't wince at the words because whatever the excuse is, it won't work right now. They need the truth. "So then…you won't tell me?"

"I can't." The answer is a pebble in a stream. "And you've got to stop talking. _Now._"

"That's too bad." Tifa's voice is low; her eyes, back to being dry. "It's just…for once, I wish _you'd_ understand."

Folding her arms, Aerith looks at her and waits. "Okay," she says. "I'm listening."

"Just – " These are words Tifa's never said to anyone out loud. Locked up with all the other things she should have said over the years but didn't, she's barely even let herself think them. But they seem so true now, she can't keep them in. "It's well…maybe if you hadn't gone to the Temple alone, maybe if you'd trusted Cloud and me enough to tell us _then_…" She swallows. "Maybe you'd still be alive."

Aerith takes a step back, and the expression on her face is so naked and hurt, it really doesn't look like her anymore. But it's only for a second before she recovers, and Tifa finds herself looking into bright Cetra eyes that she doesn't really recognize anymore, if she ever really did.

_A crossed line. _Tifa thinks, staring right back. That's what this is. And she's got no idea what's on the other side. Maybe something different. Maybe nothing at all.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," is all Aerith says, turning and walking away. "I really was trying to keep you safe, Tifa. There was nothing else I wanted more. Now, would you please go get Lightning? We've still got work to do."

Alone in front of the infirmary, Tifa doesn't answer. She just lets her friend walk away. And somewhere in the back of her mind, a decision snaps into place, so obvious that she can hardly believe there was ever any doubt at all.

_Maybe there wasn't_, she thinks, turning the ring around in her fingers. It captures and shatters the yellow light, breaks it into ragged bits of rainbow that stain the cobblestone floor. Maybe all she ever needed to do was stop being so scared.

Without another thought, Tifa pivots on her heel. Leaving Aerith unanswered behind her, she goes to try and find Vaan.

* * *

><p>In the glass world behind the Mirror of Atropos, Yuna sits cross-legged amidst gossamer threads of fate and waits for her friend.<p>

"_I will need you to be a guide, dear Yuna."_

Her mind echoes with Sir Minwu's directions. With the true dark of his bottomless eyes, which Yuna's always thought come closer to black than blue.

"_The Mirror of Atropos is filled with traps for the unwary. Lightning will be frightened and confused. But you cannot afford to be." _

It was a good direction, but she didn't really need it. Strangely enough, she's calm here. It reminds her of the edge of the Farplane, except stranger. Here, liquid glass rivers carve paths through solid glass shores. And like the water she walks on, the earth she sits on ripples, alive with reflection. In the sky, mercury clouds float over spindly-fingered silver trees, cast shadows over brilliant glass-falls that look a little like a thousand little girl's looking-glasses, and a little like ground up stars.

_It's gorgeous, really_. And even though it's confusing, the way the luminous landscape folds into itself still makes sense to her, as complex and coherent as a folded-paper swan.

And of course, everywhere Yuna looks there are ghosts. After-images of people that have been or could be or won't be at all. She sees herself among them, dancing with her father, in an impossible world without Sin.

Inclining her head, she looks at it the way she might watch a movie of a dream. Wonderful, but not real. Not for her. Not in this life.

Or at least that's what she tells herself, because believing anything else just makes her too sad.

"_Listen well. You must keep her eyes on a steady path, to a fate that she can accept. And when she finds it, speak to Aerith, and I will do the rest."_

In the end, the spell was simple enough. She Sent her consciousness through the Mirror and Summoned Light's behind her. Sir Minwu said it was because it would be easier for Light to find her way through all the different paths like this. To make it like a journey, or maybe like a quest.

Letting her eyes follow a tiny glass sparrow, Yuna remembers the task. Light has to make a choice, he'd said – a true future, in line with everything that's happened so far – where her brand is already gone. Once she sees it and makes it her own, Minwu will break the Mirror and seal the magic in place.

It's seems easy. Except if Light can't do it. Except if she gets lost here, like anyone could really, in all the other things that might have been. Different lives, different choices, other chances, already gone.

Yuna closes her eyes and stops thinking, concentrates on the fragile grace of the sparrow, still a breakable skeleton of light behind her eyes. These are not thoughts that will help her, so she lets them drift up and out of her mind; she blows on them like birthday candles, and they puff away like smoke.

"_You must promise me one thing though. While you are there, will hear something. A presence that you will recognize. I ask only, if you feel it, to Call its name. This is very important, Yuna, as important as anything else I have shown you."_

Yuna agreed, but she still doesn't quite understand. She had so many questions, but there was something in the lines around Sir Minwu's eyes that stopped her from asking them, something in the catch of his voice that told her that a wrongly placed word could be a very, very dangerous thing right now.

After all, Cid of the Lufaine is watching, listening. And while Yuna knows that she hasn't been told the whole truth, she also knows that under his gaze, they cannot speak freely.

He's the one who chains their magic. Just as he chains Sir Minwu to a world the size of the Phantom Village. Just as he chains all their friends, back in Dissidia, in some horrible game of chess.

It's not in Yuna's nature to dislike anyone on sight. But then again, she's certain she's never met someone so blind and cruel before. And no matter what he looks like, she thinks he's nothing at all like the Warrior of Light.

"_In all of the White Order, dear Yuna, there is no mage greater than you. Remember this. It has been nothing short of a privilege, nothing less than an honor."_

Why did Sir Minwu sound so devastated? Yuna opens her eyes and stares up blankly at the tear colored sky. He spoke in a dry voice, like branches breaking, and she can't help but wonder what could have made such a strong and gentle soul seem so tired all the time.

_Lord Minwu, the legend._ Like Lady Rydia of Mist, a mage of stories and songs. What could have happened, she asks herself, to tear him so completely in two?

The sound of something clinking brings Yuna's mind back to the here and now. And while she never would have thought to see Light in any kind of armor, she knows from its speed and the expertise of its motion that that the silhouette rising out of the mirrored mist is her. It couldn't be anyone else.

Yuna stands, holds out her hand. "Hi, Light," she says. "I've been waiting."

In her armor, Lightning looks beautiful, but flustered and out of place. And even though the steel suits her skin, and she walks with the ease grace of any knight, Yuna notices her eyes seem like wild things in cages – scared and prowling at the same time. She fidgets with her gauntlet, uncomfortable.

"What the hell is this place?" she growls. Looking left and right, she tries to make sense of an insensible place. "And what am I doing in this getup?"

"You know already, Light." Yuna smiles as she picks up Lightning's hand. "This is the world inside the Mirror, remember?" she explains, softly. "It shows us, well, everything. All our alternate fates. All the different universes we exist in." Sighing, she starts leading her friend forward. "Come with me. We have to find your true future, one where you've already purged your brand. But you have to understand, it's confusing here. It's very easy to get lost."

"Right," Lightning answers, closing her fingers over Yuna's. "I remember now. Don't get distracted. Some of these things – " her voice goes ragged as she catches a glimpse of some beautiful, impossible thing, " – some of these things can't be real."

Yuna looks back at her and shakes her head sadly. "No, Light," she says. "That's not quite it. The danger's that they _are_ real. They're just not possible."

Lightning doesn't answer. All she does tighten her grip. And so interlaced, their fingers glow like moonlight over the calm land.

They walk a long, strange path together, silently and hand in hand. Yuna doesn't look back all that often, but she can read what Lightning's feeling in the way her pulse flutters in the webbing of her fingers. Tempting shadows of other, happier lives range in front of their eyes then fade like deer into the forest. And even though she doesn't say anything, Yuna can tell they're breaking Light's heart.

There's Serah Farron, teaching a class at some university. Her husband has their daughter on his hip. There's Light herself – older, wearing sharp and piercing eyes – in an office in a newborn city, snug at the base of a crystal tower. There are hundreds of versions of her, some wise and some foolish, some leaders, some followers, and some with the deep and vicious freedom of hair thrown back by the wind.

And that's not even counting the other mocking lives that she lives without any violence at all. Where she is kind and ordinary, where she brushes sand from her sister's shoulder, casual and smiling.

Neither of them comment on these. Or, in some cases, who she shares them with, and how.

Behind her, Lightning only swallows, keeps her eyes locked where they belong, on the path ahead.

"It's okay, Light," Yuna comforts, unprompted. "Try and think of them as illusions. We can't choose anything that doesn't fit with the life you've already lived, with everything that's already happened on your world."

"I know." The determination in Lightning's voice is as cold and polished as the steel of her breastplate, and Yuna doesn't think she's ever been more proud to be her friend. "I'm looking for something better, anyway."

"That's right," Yuna agrees. "There's another way, I'm sure of it."

It takes them a while to wade their way out of the densest part of the mirror, the part that are crowded with possibilities so remote they're barely even worth looking at. Things only start to clear up once they reach the edge of the looking glass: a border country where the grey and blue mist seems to get that much more ethereal and the reflections, that much more real.

Lightning's the one who stops first. Who plants her feet in the cool earth and says, "Here, Yuna." The hand in hers drops away. Nimble as a thief, it steals to the hilt of her blade. "There's someone here."

No sooner are the words out of Lightning's mouth than Yuna realizes she's right. And that the landscape that was a second ago filled with the dreaming chatter of unlived lives is suddenly as silent as a dance when the music stops. She only has to look around a second before she sees what she must have seen first. A hunting, man-shaped shadow that reminds her of a sickle moon, or maybe just a scythe.

"Well met, Lightning Farron." The voice is low; dark like something that lives underground. "I have awaited your coming."

Yuna has to squint. The figure coming towards them looks and sounds a bit like Sir Kain, except he isn't. Taller but more concisely built, his sharpened eyes are bitter, and they glint with the wounded color of his blade. The dark armor he wears fits him like skin, and Yuna knows by looking at him that there's something lurking beneath it, hot with rage and sadness.

It feels a little like Bahamut. Frighteningly, a little like Light. And while she doesn't sense malice from him, she can feel the souls of those he's killed linger around him, still unsettled; far from rest.

Whoever he is, he's dangerous, and Yuna hardly realizes it when she pulls Shell into her hands.

Lightning draws her sword, and the grating sound promises violence of all kinds. "Who are you?"

"Your future," the man answers with a barren smirk. "The only future there is, for the likes of you and me."

Yuna knows his name. The Mirror tells her. "Paddra Ballad Caius."

"Yes and no, good Summoner," he replies and the hollow eyes fill up with red, blood that drowns in an underground river. "And it is only Caius. The man you speak of fell with the city of his birth. I am something rather different than he."

_Caius. _Yuna can't tell if she fears him or pities him. But his spirit's so oppressive and thick with mourning she wants to take a nervous step back. Something is broken within him, she can tell, something that started out good and noble, but isn't anymore.

_It's twisted_, she thinks, pulling Silence into the hand that's not holding Shell. Like the age-ravaged face of a once-beautiful girl. Or maybe like someone already old and bitter, who wears the skin of someone young and beautiful like a mask.

Yuna's eyes swing back and forth between them, and she knows – immediately, like she's always been able to recognize the men whose sad souls will rot into fiends – that this was who she was sent into the Mirror to find. That whoever Caius is, he's someone Light was always meant to meet, the person most of her paths lead to, after a time.

"Right." Lightning's sword is at ready position. "But what the hell does that have to do with me?"

Her question is met with a low, rolling chuckle. "Warrior goddess." The words are reverent, but they come out mocking, said with artful contempt. "Stay your blade for a time." Tipping a brow, he inclines his head. "This road is yours, as much as it is mine."

"Nice rhyme." Lightning's beautiful lips twist to sneer. Her sword stays exactly where it was. "Now, you mind telling me what the hell it means? Or why you're here? Because I've got other things to deal with right now."

"Ah. Yes." As he straightens, a band of feathers casts sharp shadows over a face already ruined by them. "The mark of the l'Cie. The wound of one chosen to die stupidly, and in chains. It was a concern of mine as well, once. But the Goddess' mercy is deep and wide. Mind that you do not drown in it."

"I've got no idea who you are or what you want." Lightning's had enough. "But either cut the bullshit or get out of my way."

"Ultimatums are hardly necessary."

"Not if you stop wasting my time."

"You may accuse me of much, woman, but not of that." Something truly vicious reclines over Caius' expression. "You have no idea what I would give to never have to know you at all. But still, I see that you are impatient, so I will make this as brief as I can." Pausing, he narrows his eyes. "Do you remember the day the world fell? The day Ragnarok caught Lindzei's nest in the palm of her hand?"

"Yeah. I was there." The hand that holds Lightning's blade doesn't tremble, but the skin on her knuckles stretches tight and dry. "Could've sworn you weren't, though."

"You didn't see me, no," he retorts, haughty, "since you were blind to much at the time. But yes, I was there. I watched our merciful Goddess wrap you in crystal, spare your life and those of your friends." A low wind toys with the scarf he wears around his neck, and Yuna notices that it's home dyed and coarsely made. Oddly, she wonders who must have woven it for him, and when, and what it means. "Pity she felt no compulsion to spare anyone else. Thousands died screaming that day. Or did Etro shield you from the noise, as well?"

"We did what we had to do." Lightning answers defiantly. "And what does Etro have to do with any of this? We kept that damn gate of hers from opening, Snow, Hope, all of us. The Maker – or whoever the fuck he is – didn't come back. Other than getting us home, She and her Door of Souls can go straight to hell."

Caius blinks, and the smile that flutters on his lips dies well before it reaches his eyes. "Such blasphemy. Her divine intervention saved your home, after all."

"Liar." In an instant, Lightning's sword shifts from defense to attack. "_Fang_ and _Vanille _saved my home. They saved everyone. It was their choice, our _choice _that _– _"

"Was it really?" Caius challenges. "Perhaps Raines is correct. Perhaps you are the only champion Etro will have for the task. A fitting warrior for the world that awaits us all." Noting the blank look on her face, Caius shakes his head. "Hm. It seems I should show you, instead. Words are apparently insufficient."

Before Lightning can speak again, Caius has raised his right hand in a sweeping motion. He's casting something, a spell Yuna doesn't understand, and it fills her soul with cold. She shivers, taken aback. _This is a mirror world; a reflection shouldn't have this much power…_

"Heed what I show you, Lightning," he commands. "Truly, I bid you look into the fate the gods had us share_,_ and tell me what you see." Deadly and precise, his hand sails out, and the magic follows it the way a kite follows a string. "This is where all the roads lead. _This_ is what was prophesied for us."

"Caius, no." Yuna has Shell up around them faster than she can take in what he's doing. She's about to say more, to chant a counterspell or try and Send his reflection away, but awe has stolen every last one of her words.

Silence melts from her fingertips, useless. "Oh," is all she can manage. "Oh, _Light._"

It's a rare thing indeed for Yuna to be afraid of anything dark. She's lived her whole life beneath the surface of things, calling monsters to her side, or dancing for the dead. But what she sees now strikes her viscerally. And when she tries to hide her eyes from the images, she fails again and again and again.

_They're everywhere.  
><em>The inside of the falling world is crystal, painted in blood.

_They're terrible.  
><em>A beautiful city lies in ruin, wearing skirts of something dark and alive.

_They don't stop.  
><em>Schools of swollen bodies clog black rivers filled with grime. _And is that Serah –_

Frantic, Yuna casts Dispel into their eyes, but it doesn't work. Whatever spell Caius holds in place, he refuses to relent. So they're forced to look; to see the things that rise behind it all. Lightning locked in a nightmare world, fighting for a thousand years. A foolish goddess weeping. A magnificent plain, reduced to blowing ash. And then a star that arcs above it, so terribly bright, it burns.

It's possible Yuna will break the High Summoner's vows and cry. She's never seen so much destruction in one place. The only thing that keeps her tears where they are is the cool place she sees when the star finally falls. And empty world, but still, there's _something – _

Whatever it is, it moves quickly then it's gone. And all that remains in Yuna's perception is a shapeless echo. A light behind her eyes that could be something beautiful, but could just as easily be nothing at all.

When it's over, Yuna sees that Lightning's dropped to her knees, and that silent tears stream from her eyes. Eventually, she pulls a kerchief out from under her gauntlet and pushes them away.

The water cuts tracks in ancient stains.

"What the hell was that, you son of a bitch?" She's on her feet in a single motion, her blade another splinter of glass in a world of mirrors. "_You _did that. It wasn't Etro or Lindzei or whoever those gods are_._ It was _you._"

Caius barely acknowledges the descent of Lightning's weapon. It's parried as easily as wind parries poplar fluff on a spring day. "Of course I did," he concedes. There's red blood in his eyes again, churning. "As you made a choice, so did I. Both had consequences. The only difference between us is I accept them."

"Shut up," Lightning spits, whirling back to ready. "We are nothing alike."

"Aren't we?" Laughing lowly, Caius sheathes his sword. "Or are you the only one permitted to defy fate? Tell me, when you tore Orphan from his cradle, were your motivations really so pure? Did you even spare a thought for who might bear the burdens of your choice? Or the lives you sacrificed, when they were not yours to give?" Slowly he walks towards her, finds and holds her eyes the way a hunter does, or an executioner. "I would consider the answers carefully, were I you, Warrior Goddess."

"Don't call me that." Lightning's voice is electric, unpredictable, ready to burn. "I'm not justifying myself to you."

"Nor did I expect you to." Caius inclines his head again, but it's a stiff gesture, with no meaning in it. "But for the moment, let us put that matter aside. I am nothing more than a reflection in a magic mirror, and this is not the moment for battles such as these. I am here to ask you a much simpler question."

Lightning sneers. "Then ask it before I ram this down your throat."

"Threats will do you no good here. But still, I ask you: did you see it?" he asks, and currents of urgency tug at the words "Beyond the rise and fall of that bright, hot thing?"

"See _what_?" The kerchief is still balled in her fist, under the hilt of her weapon. And though the tears have stopped falling, her blue eyes have red rims. "Other than more pointless death?"

"You know what I am speaking of. Do not play coy with me," Caius seethes. "A world without gods, Lightning. Without curses or fal'Cie or the thing that consumes you now. Without Etro's empty throne and you kneeling before it. Come with me, and eventually, it will come to pass."

"Screw that." Lightning growls. "I'm not bowing to any more damn gods, but I'm not going anywhere with you, either. I'm going to find a way to stop you if it kills me. There's another way. There's _always_ another way."

"There is not." If there was something like earnestness in Caius' voice, it's gone now, completely. "You may search this Mirror until you rot here, and you will not find it. Every path leads to me."

"I'd rather rot than do _anything_ you say." Lightning's expression goes hard and cold. "Now I thought I told you to get out of my way."

"As you wish," Caius allows, but his form is already fading, coming apart in curls of smoke twine into the brighter mist of the mirrorscape. "But make no mistake. We will see each other again. Of that you can be certain."

"Count on it," she virtually spits. It seems for a moment she's about to say more, about to hurl another useless threat at him, but Caius is already gone, and the mirror is filled with silent ghosts again. Blind reflections that slide past each other, bored with anything but the changing light.

Horrified, Yuna approaches Lightning slowly, cautiously. "Light," she says. "Oh _Light. _Are you…"

"No. No Yuna, I'm not. But – _but – _" When Lightning turns to look at her, her eyes are ravaged. She sheathes her blade but keeps the kerchief in her hand. She holds it right under her nose, and when she speaks again Yuna can't tell who she's talking to. "He's psychotic, but it's the right result."

"I'm sorry?"

"A world without gods," she mutters. "It's the exact right result. But he's wrong, he's wrong about how it has to happen. I don't quite understand it, but I did see something. Something I can do if I've got the guts…If I wake up human again somehow…" She stops, suddenly alert, suddenly commanding. Yuna can see a choice lock in place behind her eyes. "Tell Minwu to break the Mirror. Tell him to break it right now."

Yuna feels sick. She doesn't want to do this anymore. She had no idea that this was what she'd see on the other side of the looking glass. No idea that kind of fate they'd be sending Lightning back to. _If I had –_ "But Light – "

"Do it," Lightning orders. "Please, Yuna. I'm not sure this'll work but it's the best chance I've got. The best chance Serah's – I need to get this thing off my chest _now._"

"But – "

"_Please._" Lightning's voice cracks "I am going to win this fight. I promise you I am. But you have to trust me."

The words in Yuna's throat don't make it to her lips. She wants to argue with her, say they've got to sit down, to think about it, but then she can't. Because she remembers Lightning's brand, the horrifying power of the Cie'th she almost turned into back in the desert, and she knows she doesn't have a choice right now. None of them do.

And if she has to trust something, then Yuna thinks there are worse people to trust than a friend.

Picking up Lightning's hand, Yuna forces a smile. "I do trust you, Light." Pausing, she closes her eyes, sends the thought "_now"_ out to Aerith's waiting mind. "We _all _trust you. And besides, we've made it this far, right?"

Putting her other hand over Yuna's, Lightning smiles back. It's a nice smile, firm and brave, and it's the last thing to fade away as the mirrorscape starts to crack and pop around them. _Minwu's shattering it now_. Reaching out with the most ancient of spells and locking in whatever Light saw. That place, smoldering in ashes,where she was alive again, and free.

Strangely, Yuna hears the voice in her mind, the way she would if she were talking to Aerith.

"_Damn right_."

With Lightning gone, Yuna's left alone in a gale of shattering glass, more confused than she's ever been. _Is this the truth?_ Did Minwu and Aerith really see this and not tell them? It doesn't seem possible. If this is Lightning's fate, and going to the Door of Souls means they put in motion any of this, anything that leads to that _monstrous_ _– _

Yuna feels feverish all of a sudden, and betrayal twists her up inside. This isn't a price any of them would pay to get home. Lightning in chains. Her whole world broken. She shudders. She won't do it. She won't go one step farther if this is what it means.

_How could they_? Yuna refuses to let herself shake, even though the mirrorscape is breaking down completely now, becoming small and claustrophobic when only moments ago it seemed as wide and limitless as possibility itself. Lord Minwu and Lady Aerith…the very best of the White Order…_How could they?_

Yuna doesn't know. She feels like she doesn't know anything anymore, other than she this place feels evil now, and she needs to get out as fast as she possibly can. But the second she's about to Send herself back, something tears through her mind. Fragments of a familiar presence, one she'd never thought she'd feel again, streaking towards the Farplane all the way from Dissidia, weak or dying.

"Cosmos!" Yuna calls the name without even thinking it. It's not even a Summoner's call, just an ordinary cry of surprise and mourning. One more death when she doesn't think she can take any more. "Oh, no._ Cosmos._"

It makes no sense. She wasn't a good goddess, Yuna knows that now, but she wasn't malicious either, and She tried to help them. _In her own way._ She tried, too.

Only fairy tales make it seem like everyone can succeed at everything, and be good doing it, too. But that's not true. And whatever Dissidia was, it certainly wasn't a fairy tale.

"_If you feel it, Call its name." _

If the mirror world was coming apart before Yuna cried out, now it's simply disintegrating. The silver trees and incandescent sky, the thousand paths that brought them here, all of it cracks and cracks again. It keeps going until there's nothing. Nothing but a decimated storm of glass that whips around her, more blinding than ice on the sea.

_Everything that could have been._ For all of them. Yuna has never wanted so badly to cry, but Braska's memory will not let her. So instead, she holds out her hand, lets the broken reflection play light upon her hands, as beautiful as it is lost; as lost as it is wild.

The light's still swirling behind her eyes when her consciousness returns to the infirmary. She can see it, along with burning unshed tears, sealed tight behind her lids. But still, it's only when she opens them again that she realizes that the mirror world's not the only place that's shattered. That while Light was choosing her path, Minwu and Aerith and Cid of the Lufaine were doing the same.

_Every choice has consequences. _The words drift through her mind in Caius' voice.

Blinking, Yuna presses her hand to her mouth. She can't afford to let herself scream.

* * *

><p>On the roof of the Phantom Village Inn, Vaan sits with his crossbow under his chin and stares.<p>

The smell of dead things is in the air, but he ignores it. Above the Protection, Cie'th move like shadow puppets against a cheap cardboard sky, but he ignores that too. He's supposed to be keeping watch after all. He's supposed to be concentrating.

It's really hard, though. Weird-feeling magick keeps crawling over his skin, and he can't keep his focus where he wants it to be.

Shifting, Vaan shakes his head quickly, tries to force himself to stay on task. Kain and Laguna are back outside again, setting up a saggy-looking barrier with mealie bags, and the whole point of him sitting up here is to give them cover if they need it. And to sound the alarm too, if he sees another tear in the barricade. But his heart's not in it right now. No matter how hard he stares, the Phantom Village just looks like an all-the-same mess, filled with sad, disturbing things.

_It's the zombies_, he thinks, glancing down at the warped shadows of them that stain his hands. _At least a part of it is, anyway._ Vaan almost wishes he could just go back to being pissed at Aerith and Minwu all the time, but since the other day, he can't. Not necessarily because he's stopped being angry (he hasn't) or because he's too tired to care (he's not), it's just, _well_ –

He can't get over how sorry for them he feels. Sure they're ugly, but that's not the point. _Everything can be ugly if you look at it too hard._ It's more that he thinks it just isn't fair. They were human once, just like Light, and he wonders if any of them had so many people trying to save them. Or if they turned into monsters all alone, with no one to care.

Scowling, he lays his weapon crossways over his knees. The whole thing puts him on edge. But he thinks it'd probably be less upsetting if this Cid of the Lufaine weren't prancing around in the Warrior of Light's body.

Vaan hates that guy. No if, ands or buts. He thought he hated Aerith, but at least she saved their lives. He and Teefs would be dog-food in the Ruins without her, so he's got to give her the save. _This guy_ –

This guy's just a jerk.

"_A pleasure to meet you all,_" he'd said that one time he sat down to dinner with them. He'd even bowed, grinned_. _As if he could waltz in after sucking everyone into Dissidia, cutting Minwu half to shreds – hell – making the _manikins_, and then smile at them like there's no hard feelings. And the way he looks at Light creeps him right out.

"_Fascinating." _Vaan remembers the way he said it clear as day. Same dinner. Different crap. _I can see how you captured Cosmos' attention, now. You use magic like a fiend. If I'd known l'Cie crystal could do this, I might have found other uses for it." _

He's got to admit, Light showed a lot more restraint than he thought she would. They all did.

Strangling the shaft of his crossbow, Vaan grits his teeth. He's not really a violent person unless he's got to be (sneaking works better more than half the time) but honestly, he thinks it would calm him down a whole lot if he could punch the guy in the face. In fact, he thinks he'd hand over a good chunk of the gil he's got left to get him alone in a room and clock him a few times. And he's pretty sure Kain and Laguna'd hold him down.

Well, Kain'd probably just kill him. But Kain's got anger management issues.

Impatient, Vaan rocks forward, jumps to his feet. He guesses the heart of it is that he's tired of feeling like they're all stuck here. Like they're stranded in a holding pattern waiting for more bad stuff to happen. He begins to pace; realizes that all he really wants is to be back in control of his own life again.

Swinging his crossbow over his shoulder, Vaan bounces on the balls of his feet and tries to shake it off_. It'll be better later_. As soon as they get that garbage off Light's chest. Once that happens, he figures things've got to change. They won't have to be so careful around Aerith and Minwu; they can come up with a plan_. _They'll find their own way out of this useless excuse for a place.

Annoyed, Vaan sights the crossbow off into the distance. He wants to shoot something. If for no other reason than to watch something move and change. Get a bit of movement, maybe a bit of breeze off the kickback. _Something._

A bolt's already locked in place. All he has to do is find some kind of target, squeeze the trigger, _and – _

"Hey."

The sound of Tifa's voice nearly sends Vaan out of skin. He's usually pretty good not at not being snuck up on – particularly by girls who wear rubber-soled army boots and kick people with them – but this time she managed to get him. He exhales, brings the crossbow right down.

"_Teefs,_" he says, a little irritated. He turns to face her. "Not so smart to sneak up on people holding loaded crossbows, you know."

"Yeah, well." Tifa smiles a small smile. "I can't make great decisions all the time."

Vaan snorts a quick laugh, remembers catching her and Light trying to sneak out of the Inn the other day and thinks "_all the time"_ is probably an overstatement. "What happened?" he asks. "White magick police catch you and Light boozing over another copy of Lustful Lala-whatever again?"

A quick blush warms Tifa's cheeks. "_Lali-ho,_" Tifa corrects. "And I had to do _something_ with her. She's been going completely nuts, cooped up like this."

"You're telling me." Hopping back from the edge of the roof, Vaan rolls a knot out of his neck. "I showed her how to use my crossbow the other day and I think she actually _liked _it. I mean, she wasn't good at it or anything, but she was almost smiling and everything."

"Really?" Tifa seems surprised. "I thought she thought arrows were stupid? I mean, compared to bullets and everything."

"Yeah. She's wrong, though." Scratching one side of his nose, Vaan shrugs. "But who knows? Maybe she just liked threatening me with it." He pauses, changes the subject. "You got any idea what's going on down there? They get started already?"

"Yeah." Nodding, Tifa fidgets with something in her pocket. "While ago, I think."

"Good," he replies, more relieved than nervous. Sure, he's a bit scared for her, but he'll take the risk about a thousand times a day if it means that they're one stop closer to going home. "How long do you think it'll take before they're done? I want to go see her after. I've got something for her."

"You mean you nicked something for her?" Tifa sounds like she's scolding him, but he knows she's not really.

"Whatever, Teefs." Pulling open his vest, Vaan fishes out the Sash he found the other day. Light's belts have been coming apart recently, and since he was already _in_ the vault... "It's a Sash. It's got anti-Slow on it, I think. She's fast already, but this'll keep her that way. And all her old clothes are falling apart…" He hesitates, suddenly wondering if it'll make her uncomfortable. She doesn't really seem like someone who gets a lot of presents. "Think she'll like it? I mean, I don't want it to be weird or anything."

Vaan's got no idea why Tifa suddenly seems so uncomfortable. It makes him even more nervous than before.

"Of course she will," she answers after a while. "I mean, she'll probably think you Poisoned it, but…Wait – " Cutting herself off, she looks at him suspiciously. "You didn't Poison it, did you?"

"Teefs – " despite himself, he grins a little. "Would I do something like that?"

"I think you would, actually." Tifa laughs softly. "I mean, not _all_ the way, but for a prank…"

There's something about the awkward way that Tifa trails off that Vaan thinks seems odd. And now that he's paying attention, he notices that she's balled her fists in her pockets, and she's not looking at him at all.

Something sharp-elbowed and strange settles between them. Above them, the moth-looking zombies swirl and dive, and their shadows are the only thing on the roof that moves.

"Okay." He folds his arms and tries joking it out of her. The absolute last thing he ever wants to feel is strange around Teefs, but something's off. He can tell. "You can spit it out now."

For a long time, Tifa doesn't answer, and Vaan thinks the quiet's all of a sudden thick enough to choke on. He's about to say something else. Prod her. But then she pulls her hand out of her pocket, shows him what she's been keeping there, and suddenly there's nothing to say.

Vaan blinks. The multi-colored glint of the ring in Tifa's outstretched palm cuts at his eyes.

_My crystal ring? What? _

Missing pieces fall into place in his mind, and he doesn't want to see the shape that they're making.

"Wait, Teefs." he says, confused. "Where'd you get that? You said you – "

The sound of a strained inhalation pulls on Vaan's nerves. "I'm sorry," she says, slowly at first, but then she gets started and the words seem to chase each other of her mouth. "When you asked, I didn't have it, but then after we got to the _Falcon_, I found it in Minwu's room and I…and I…"

Tifa keeps talking, but Vaan's not listening because his mind's going a mile a minute. Crystal rings have anti-Sleep. This stupid, massive hole in his memory _really_ started at the Limit Break after he woke up. He had a brother. He had a brother he doesn't remember now because, _because – _

Minwu said he was sorry. And all of a sudden, Vaan knows there's no way that'll ever be good enough.

Breathing in deep, Vaan tries to process. He thinks that no matter what he was just thinking, it doesn't take much for everything to change. A couple of seconds really, and then everything ends up looking different. _Everyone. _

"And you kept it? All this time?" Anger lowers his voice and clenches his fist. It feels bright and cool and sick. He wants to use it to break something. "You knew I haven't been able to remember anything and you just kept it?"

Whatever Tifa's still trying to explain, she stops, and when she tries to put her hand on his forearm, he jerks clean away. "I'm sorry." He can hear her swallow. "Aerith was my friend. And I thought…"

Every type of anger and sadness hits Vaan all at once. He'd relied on Tifa. Confided in her even. And if he doesn't have any memories; and he can't trust even trust her – of all people – what the hell does he even have here anymore?

Vaan grits his teeth. The answer's obviously that he's got himself. But he's always just had himself and it's not as good as having someone to fight for. A team. Someone who's got your back – or at least the memory of someone who did. It makes all the difference in the world to have a reason to keep going through crap like they've been going through, and Aerith and Minwu took it from him, he's sure of it now.

_And Tifa knew. _And she made him feel like it was some awful thing, not trusting these guys.

"What? That you could lie to me too?" He feels hot and furious and helpless all at the same time. "Was this funny for you or something? You get some kind of kick out of knowing – "

"No. I didn't know anything else, I promise," Tifa interrupts him, but her voice almost isn't there. "I still don't know anything. They won't tell me either. I just; I thought – It was wrong of me," she finally finishes, simply.

Vaan knows she's waiting for him to say something encouraging, but he doesn't feel like it.

"I guess I didn't want to believe things had changed." Tifa looks up at him, and her eyes are sad, but clear. "I wanted everything to be okay when it wasn't. I made a mistake. I should have listened to you. I guess – " She stops, gathers her breath. " – I guess I should've known better. I wanted – I thought she deserved a chance, you know."

Silence rolls over the end of Tifa's sentence and Vaan doesn't disturb it. He's got nothing to say, really. And even though he's probably angrier at her than he ever remembers being at a friend, what he mostly feels is empty. And kind of like he wishes Kain would've asked that Gabranth guy what his brother's name was instead of punching the teeth out of his head.

It's kind of a dumb thing to wish for, all things considered, but still. "And I didn't?"

"Vaan." Tifa reaches out again, and he doesn't bother pulling away. There's no real point. Being a jerk won't make it better. "I'm so sorry," she says again, and Vaan really wishes that "sorry" was as good at putting things back the way they were as everyone seems to think it is. "I promise, I'll never – "

Whatever it was Tifa's about to promise gets lost in the sudden twisting of the Phantom Village Inn. A tortured-sounding groan that Vaan recognizes as the slow break of old wood beams, the cracking of huge swaths of concrete. Reflexively, Vaan turns his arm over, grabs Tifa in a clumsy attempt to keep them both on their feet. It doesn't work out so well.

They hit the ground together. Hard. And Vaan feels the shaft of his crossbow move his shoulder blade where it isn't supposed to be. _Crap. _

Recovering first, Tifa flips forward and then yanks him up behind her. And when the ground beneath their feet corkscrews again – this time more violently, like a seizure, almost – they somehow manage to keep upright.

Momentarily panicked, Vaan scans the rooftop and thinks for a second that maybe that Verco-whatever-his-name-was thing is back again – that he somehow missed a sudden surge of zombies – but when he breaks out of Tifa's grasp, finds enough concentration to look up and around, he's sees it's actually much worse than that.

_The Protection. The __**Village**__…_

Every muscle in Vaan's body tenses when he finally realizes what's going on. Usually, the magick that holds up the Protection's invisible, but something's happening to it now. It's sparking; shimmering; and all of a sudden a sky that was nothing but yellow looks like it's coming apart in impossible colors, so sing-song bright Vaan thinks looking at it feels like a stroke. And in front of it all, what's happening to the Inn is happening all over the town, buildings just giving up and collapsing, turning the horizon into dirty puffs of dust.

For a second, Vaan and Tifa stare as the city starts dying; as layers of magick unpeel through the sky, like skin getting pulled off bone.

Somewhere in the distance, the zombies scream, mad with feeding excitement. Ready for blood.

Semi-automatic weapon's fire screams out of the courtyard as Laguna's fires his MP-7 straight up into the air. The sounds crash against the ear-breaking shrieks and against the wall of Vaan's skull. It almost hurts to listen to, but he's happy for it because it breaks him out of the shock. Gives him the signal that they've got to get the hell off this roof. _Right now._

"Vaan!" Tifa keeps scrambling to keep her balance. "What's happening?"

"How am I supposed to know?" he barks back, sparing a half second to shoot a volley of bolts from his crossbow into the air as a signal to Kain and Laguna on the ground. He really hopes he doesn't accidentally skewer one of them. "Must be – "

"_Light._" Tifa finishes for him, her eyes suddenly wide with terror. "Oh, Vaan. We've got to find her. And Yuna_._" Reeling sideways, she barely manages to keep her footing as the Inn seems to rock on its foundations. "We've got to get inside. We've got to find them before – ."

"The whole place falls down. No _kidding_." Grabbing her hand without a second thought, Vaan races towards the ladder.

"Vaan – " Tifa starts, looking almost surprised at the strength in his grip, and even through all the fear, he can see that there's still sadness on her face. _"I'm sorry"_ written in big, capital letters. "Please, I – "

"Don't get me wrong Teefs." He cuts her off because they really don't have time for this. "I'm so pissed off at you I can't think straight, but whether I like it or not, you're still my friend. The best I've got here." He stops them short, braces against another massive rumble. Then another. But he refuses to let go of her hand, not right now, not like this. "So let's stop talking and _run,_ okay?"

Knotting her fingers unbreakably into his, Tifa nods, listens, follows behind him, step for step.

* * *

><p>As the Mirror of Atropos shatters at her feet, Aerith Gainsborough remembers that once, she had twenty-three wishes.<p>

She used them all to wish for Zack Fair. And then, when he never came back, she found some more, and she wished for other things, too. She wished for Cloud to feel better, and for Tifa to he happier. She wished for Tseng to understand, and for Barret to love his daughter the same way he loved the cause.

And then, finally, when the Planet almost died, she wished for it not to. It was the most important wish of her life, and the only one she really needed to come true. The only one that wasn't for her and her friends; the only one that really, really mattered to anyone except her.

Until now, that is.

Watching it all play out in front of her, all Aerith wants is to get some of those wishes back. She doesn't think that they'll do much good, but if they would even tip the scales a little, give her a chance to undo any one of the things that lead them to right here, right now, then she thinks it would be worth it. Because this – _this is horrible_. This isn't what they planned. At all.

Yuna, with her hand over her mouth, her eyes an accusation. Lightning, still unconscious, her face cold and distant and drawn. Minwu, hunched and swaying over her, his forearms corded with strain because in one more second, he might fall over. In one more second, he could just fall down.

And Cid. _Misguided, merciless Cid of the Lufaine._ He's simply standing there, magic boiling in both hands, with tears streaking down his face.

_He's was supposed to leave. _Lightning was supposed to wake up, and Cid was supposed to leave when Cosmos died and Yuna called it out. _Why hasn't he left?_

Aerith has seen and heard a lot of things. On the Planet, in Dissidia, here in the Rift. But as the Lufenian stands stock still in place, glaring at all of them, she's not sure if she's ever seen such naked fury in someone's face. Fury and sadness and mourning and magic so uncontrolled, his colorless eyes glow with it.

"What did you do?" Cid asks the question so slowly it grinds and creaks, the gears of some ancient machine. "Tell me now."

Minwu barely looks up. Instead, he reaches up with a halting hand and pulls down the cowl of Fynn, knocks this turban to the ground. "I did nothing, Cid of the Lufaine," he coughs, then licks blood from his lower lip. "You heard a cry from the Mirror. Nothing more."

Cid starts towards them, a toxic sneer on his face. "You are lying."

"Perhaps." Weakly, Minwu laughs. "You tell me."

Aerith tenses, feels the Protection start to crumble, as somewhere in the dying world of Dissidia, the Dragon screams in rage. She forces herself not to tremble. To have faith in Minwu's gamble that enough of a man remains in Cid to hear his wife's death, to go to her, to leave them alone, perhaps even to regret.

_He has to leave._ The thought repeats itself. If he doesn't, and Shinryu finds him here, everything is lost. They all die here. Everything falls apart. _Come on. Come on. Please._

Yuna moves towards them, her beautiful green and blue eyes wide with fear and confusion. But before she can do or say anything, Aerith catches her gaze and holds her in place.

_Don't move._ The panicked thought is an order. And while Aerith can tell Yuna doesn't trust her anymore, she understands instinctively; stays exactly, perfectly still.

_What's happening?_ There is carefully controlled horror in Yuna's mind. _The magic's coming apart for some reason. What do we do?_

_I don't know,_ Aerith answers, and for the first time since the morning she walked into the Temple, she's filled with dread that feels slimy, like something cold and alien wrapping itself around her neck. She'd try to summon the Lifestream, but the force of it now would be too much for the Inn to take…

_Wait, _is all she can come up with._ Wait. _

"Cosmos." Cid talks to Minwu again and Aerith feels the room lose its air. "_Chaos_. You felt it as I do Minwu. Answer me and do not lie again. What did they do?"

"What she has been planning all along," he says. The blood that's leaking from his ears oozes down his neck, and without thinking Aerith runs to his side. She ducks under his shoulder, does her best to help him stand. "What you have been too blind to see. Your son has slain your wife, but it is by her choice she dies. This is _ending_, Cid." Fluttering panic grips her when she realizes the Cure she's pressed into him does nothing. "As it was always going to end. If you are man enough, go to them now.."

"_You."_ As Cid speaks, Aerith rolls Shell into Minwu's body, desperate for it to catch. It doesn't. _Why won't it catch?_ "You knew. You knew and you said nothing, you traitorous fool. If I had time, I could have – "

"The only traitor here is you." Minwu's voice is dark, wounded thing, and Aerith can see that everything coming out of his mouth now is unplanned and free. As free as she has ever seen him. "You who sold your wife and son for revenge and crystal ore and dead letter prophecy – "

"_Silence – _"

"You who cower in fear, blind to Shinryu's rage." Minwu speaks right through him. "He withdraws his Protection…the magic that holds this Village together comes apart at the seams. Tell me – " he blazes "Are you afraid now? Now do you finally _see? _He was never concerned for you, Lufenian, or your games…"

As if waiting for his words, the Phantom Village Inn starts to shake. Thousand-year-old beams of wood bend and strain, as if remembering how old they are. How close they are to breaking. _"_I said _silence – _"

"I have been silent long enough." Aerith almost opens her mouth to speak, but then doesn't. Her eyes lock on Lightning, who's finally starting to move, and she realizes what Minwu must have realized already. That the only chance they have now is if he stalls, waits for her to recover. Focuses all Cid's anger on him so they have a chance to run…"And I pity you, Cid," he goes on. "Oh, how I pity everything you are."

_But she's barely moving_. Aerith's not listening to what's being said. She staring at Lightning's hands, waiting for any sign that the Mirror's magic's worked at all. A finger curls. Another. Eyelids flutter. _Please._

Wild hope jumps up in Aerith's throat. "Minwu," she calls out. _They can all still get out…_"Stop. Stop it Minwu, _please_ – "

Yuna sees it too. Sees everything, as she always does. "Light – _oh. _Lord Minwu – "

Too far gone in his anger or too committed to his plan, the First Mage heeds neither of them. He continues, goading. "Return to Dissidia now, if you dare. Clean up your mess." With his free hand, Minwu wipes the blood from his mouth. "Or are you too much of a coward for even that?"

It all happens at once. Whatever magic Cid's been storing in his stolen hands flies from his fingers, barrels straight into Minwu's chest. And helpless, Aerith can't do anything but watch as the force sends his body hurling backwards. As it cracks his spine, snaps it in two as easily as a child breaks a butterfly in his soft, careless hands.

Yuna screams. Aerith can't. And _Lightning_, Lightning finally wakes up. Her bright eyes flash open just in time to see Minwu fall, his mouth wide and slack and soundless in agony.

"Odin's grace_,_" she whispers, and the words cut over the rising sounds of Cie'th screaming outside the window, over the tortured groans of wood grieving for itself.

For a second, the world seems to stop on its axis. And even though the Inn itself is splitting from its moorings like a dollhouse in a fire; even though the Protection shivering away, leaving them broken and exposed, Aerith still feels like time's gone still. That she'll be trapped in this one revolting second, forever.

Cid of the Lufaine still stands there, eyes wide with shock.

Disbelieving, Aerith falls to her knees, hands clenching and unclenching. In the end, it was barely a child's spell, released with a graceless, blundering hand. It shouldn't have done this. _It shouldn't have – This is all wrong…_

"Minwu," his name hisses from Aerith's lips. "_Minwu._" Looking up, she feels Lifestream curl around her, fill her eyes as she bores them into Cid of the Lufaine. "Look what you've done." Her voice goes shrill in her own ears, and she reaches for black materia she stopped carrying long ago. "You awful, awful thing –_ Look what you've done._"

"…It was an accident." Cid seems almost as surprised as she is horrified, and he takes a hesitant step forward. She senses no magic coming from him at all. He feels small and human, and Aerith has never come so close to hating anyone, so close to throwing the tenets of the White Order to the wind. "I was…I was very fond of Minwu…I hadn't thought…It was not my intention…"

"Fuck your intentions." Lightning's on her feet now, and Yuna's thrown up a heavy wall of Protect. It shields them from the ongoing collapse, but not much, _not enough. _Everything's breaking. Everything's coming apart. "And fuck you too."

The shattering noises and threats go on, but Aerith doesn't really hear them. With Lightning's blade impaled in his gut, Cid of the Lufaine finally flees back to Dissidia, but she doesn't really see him. The only thing she sees is the broken man in front of her. Ears bleeding, eyes going out.

"Minwu," she repeats, so desperate for an answer – any answer – spells flow through her fingers like water. Raise and Reraise. Esuna. Basuna. Cure in every known register. "Minwu, it worked. He's gone. Lightning's okay. Please get up."

There's still no reply, so Aerith casts harder. Radiant with life, the magic blossoms from her fingertips. It opens its arms to hold everything around her but the one thing she knows she's already lost.

"Come _on_."

Even the Lifestream can't help her. Minwu's not of her world, so the Planet has no shelter to offer him; no clean, well-lighted place for him to finally, finally rest.

Grief and terror hold her burning voice in her stomach. Two pairs of hands pull at her, try and pull her from where she's sitting but she won't let them. _Not yet._

"I'm so sorry, Lady Aerith." Aerith thinks it's Yuna talking but it doesn't matter. Bits of debris are hitting her, bruising her arms and shoulders, but that matters even less. "But we have to go. We have to go now."

Aerith twists wildly away. "I can't just leave him. I can't – "

Other voices seem to join Yuna and Lightning's. Vaan, starting in a thin, accusatory whisper before careening into silence. Tifa's soft and kind as always, saying "Aerith, oh Aerith…"

She wishes she could pay attention to them. But she can't because Minwu's softly groaning on the ground. She needs to hear what he's saying. It's the most important thing ever, she thinks, to hear what he says because then maybe none of this will be real._ Maybe he won't – _

"You wore ribbons in you hair once, flower girl…" Minwu's voice is edged more with laughter than pain, and suddenly Aerith knows that all the magic in the world won't help him; that the ageless body he was given in this place has finally taken as much as it could ever be expected to bear. "…I should never…I'm so sorry…"

"No." The word is a whisper because it's all her vocal chords will give her. "Minwu, please, you didn't do anything, I – "

"No," he goes on, and as even though she's continuing to cast, Aerith can feel how the bleeding won't stop, where his spinal cord's torn in two. "I'd forgotten…about beautiful things…It was an error…" The last words he speaks are more rubble in world that's already falling apart. "Don't forget…Don't forget to tell them…you have to…"

"Come back," she says nonsensically, bargaining. "I promise I won't forget. I – "

"Good." Dust and debris cake his face, but he's smiling, almost content. "…I'm sorry…"

"Stop _saying _that," she pleads. "Minwu, don't – why don't you believe me?"

No answer. Silence nests in silence. The Phantom Village Inn wheezes and shakes, and there will never be answers again.

Some part of Aerith's brain is aware that she's getting up of her own volition now. And hands are gathering Minwu's body and following behind. But even as she's rushing through the halls, throwing the force of her spells behind Yuna's, dodging bits and pieces of her home as it burns down, her mind isn't really with her. It's somewhere else, still thinking about the total finality of his unmoving mouth.

_No._

She's running but she's not thinking, a sob caught in her throat. And as the Inn comes to wreckage around them, it turns silently sidelong in her windpipe and takes her breath away.

* * *

><p>As he wipes a nice fat wad of Cie'th splatter from his face, Laguna spends the few moments he's not using to keep himself alive to list off a couple of things – both good and bad – about Hyne-damned Kain Highwind.<p>

Swiveling to blow a hole in the puss-leaky chest wound of the nearest monster, Laguna starts with _good._ He's sharp. Witty. When not speaking gibberish, easily the most natural spotter he's ever had. Mostly honorable. Tactical.

He pivots again. Rams another cartridge of ammo into the machine gun. Smiles as that guts-deep-satisfying click hits his ears. _Bad. _Bastard. Friend-stabbing tactical. Bastard-_covered_ bastard. With a bastard on top.

"_Hold a moment", he says. "I'll return." _Kicking over a mealie bag, Laguna ducks behind it, narrowly dodges the rotting crystal talon that swipes at his face. The smell catches in the back of his throat and he swallows the urge to retch.

_Return from where, bucko? _He _hates _it when that guy does this. Spitting, Laguna scans the field. Sees nothing but a fucking symphony of screaming, dying things; exhausted buildings finally sliding apart, sloughing off whole sheets of concrete like flecks of skin…

Coughing, Laguna lets out another volley of gunfire. He loses himself in the recoil because if he doesn't, he'll have to think about what the hell just went so wrong; where Light and Yuna and the rest of them are; how in the name of everything holy _everywhere_ they're going get out of this one.

Or he could just piss himself in pure, honest terror. _Could do that, too._

"Highwind." Frustrated, Laguna calls out, barrel rolling a few feet across the courtyard and back towards to the door. The dust that lands in his mouth tastes like Cie'th guts. "Where are you, buddy?"

Looking up, Laguna can't see anything but a burning-down sky. It blisters with Cie'th; and it bubbles and pops with the head-splitting fizzing noise of Protection coming undone. Not one smartass dragoon up there. _Hyne_.

"I swear. You better the fuck not be dead, my friend." Laguna's pretty sure that his voice is drowning the groan of snapping, superheated steel, but he's not going to let that stop him. "You only get one off-yourself free card – " With a stinking whoosh, the thing that tried to swipe him before lands in rights front of him, opens a mouth filled with abscessed crystal teeth. Unperturbed, Laguna shoots it in the face. " – Then I get real mad."

When the answer finally comes, it arrives in the form of a smeared purple shadow, the business end of a seven-foot spear that nails the thing that was just trying to kill him into the dirt. They watch it twitch momentarily – its blackened body squirming on the haft – before looking at each other.

"Truly a fearsome prospect." Grimacing, Kain breaks off a crossbow bolt that's newly lodged under his shoulder before pulling his lance out of the thing's ribs. He eyes the blood on the blade with obvious distaste before neatly ducking a swipe from something else that's crept up on them from behind. "Remind me to flee."

"Will do, friend." Winking, Laguna takes a step left, blows what passes for the creatures head into black and crystal confetti. "And no worries. There's no shame of being afraid of the man with the machine gun. I won't tell anybody. Now – " Still firing front, he backs up towards the door, motions for Kain to cover his flank " – you mind telling me where the hell you just were?"

Scowling, Kain falls into position, whirls his spear into a spinning block right in time to knock back another diving blow. Only half clad in armor, Laguna can see the blood drool stupidly from the nub of the bolt wound. "The roof," he growls. "The barrier fails. The Inn collapses." Pausing for a moment to ram his spear up through the jaw of the fifteenth – _sixteenth? Seventeenth? Seventieth? Fuck – _one of these things they've killed so far. "We must find our allies."

"Great." Laguna shakes his head, feels sweat curdle under his jacket collar. "Awesome. Perfect. And I was finally getting comfortable here." He really hopes his tail-spinning panic doesn't show up in his voice. "You happen to know where they are?"

Laguna manages to catch a tightening in Kain's expression. Grim lines pull around his stained lips, and his voice drops to something hard, sharp and low. "No. I – "

"Well – " Laguna can't turn around because he's too busy pumping lead into the disgusting things trying to eat their faces off, but unless he's gone completely nuts – _which is possible_ – the word seems to come out in Tifa Lockhart's voice, and it sounds like music to him. " – maybe you should look right behind you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Laguna sees a couple of multicolored heads – two in midnight black and one in sandy blond; two in chestnut brown and – invincibly_ – _one in dirty sunrise pink. Cool relief tingles on every firing nerve, and he's about to call out something light and easy and rallying, but then he realizes – _no_, _shit_. Oh no.

Even through the white-out of poison dust and crystal, it's plain as day that Minwu's body doesn't have strings in it anymore. Dead as anything Laguna's ever seen, it slumps between Vaan and Tifa, wise eyes flat and wide, wide open.

Laguna's mind locks down. If he feels any grief at all, he sticks it in a steel box and blowtorches the damn thing shut. _Gotta keep the rest of us alive, _is the only thought he lets himself think. Although the fact that more and more Cie'th seem to clog the horizon every second, he can't say it's looking all that good.

Kain says what he can't. "Keep him behind me."

The next few minutes pass in something that Laguna can only describe as complete and utter pandemonium: a blurry, foggy mess of things that are dying, things that are collapsing, and weapons-grade steel that streaks his vision like the violent grey of a storm. The _Falcon_ was one thing. Sure, it might've been a burning airship, and there are no lines to ride those, but at least everything seemed contained then. And they had some kind of forward momentum; a plan, no matter how crazed.

_In short, it seemed like a fight_. The cartridge he slams into his piece isn't the last one he's got, but he's eating through 'em real fast now. _This feels more like a last stand_. Or shooting fish in a Hyne-screwed barrel.

"Anybody got any ideas?" It's Vaan that's screaming, and his voice flirts with unadulterated terror. The knife in his hand looks almost black, and he's coated to the elbows in rank, chunky gore. "Guys? _Anything?_"

"Eyes front." Light this time. Offering an order that would be good in basically any other situation that didn't involve being surrounded on all sides by fire and fucking brimstone, but he gives her credit for trying. "Keep focused."

Laguna smothers the urge to say "On what, darlin'?" because whatever it is she's shouting out, it's a sight more than he's got.

Setting his weight, Laguna grimaces and tastes gunpowder. She's right beside him now, and she's unloading bullets into anything she can get her sight on before flipping Enkindler to blade and decapitating whatever gets close. He'd be grateful for the back-up but he can't since no matter what she's doing, they're probably not going to be able to fight their way out of this one.

The sky shrieks as it tumbles down. And everywhere, the forgotten citizens of the Phantom Village catch fire. Their eyes boil in their sockets. They melt where they stand.

Burning skin smell rots in Laguna's nostrils. And the prayer he wants to send out to them turns to puke-tasting ash on his tongue.

He starts keeping time in sensation The soreness of his swollen shoulder, beat up from recoil. The sound of Light barking orders, the catch and release of Vaan's crossbow, firing fast. It goes on so long and so loud that after a while, the only thing that keeps Laguna firing is the power he feels welling up from Yuna and Aerith. White and cool and powerful, he can feel it rising somewhere behind him, and it's like soothing rain on his blistering skin.

"Brace yourselves." Laguna hears clean military command in Kain's voice and it makes him feel better somehow. "_Now._"

Dizzy with expectation, Laguna can't do anything other than what he's told. His muscles tense for impact and he closes his eyes and fires blind. But just as he's ready for it – a surge of Holy, maybe, or the Lifestream's living force – just as he hauls in a deep, cleansing breath, what rushes past him is the exact opposite of what he thinks it's going to be. Not bright, avenging white magic at all, but…

_Black shit? What?_ Confused as ten different hells and suddenly freezing cold, Laguna eases his finger off the trigger and looks around frantically. It's a vast mist of clawing darkness that rises up around them, dense and bubbling as carbonated tar. In basket-weave, the tendrils reach up and over them, draw a conniving, evil barrier between them and the mayhem beyond.

Whatever this stuff is, it's toxic, and it chatters to itself as it greases the air. Every time the Cie'th touch it, they rear and scream in primal disgust. And looking around, Laguna can't help but think that maybe they've got the right idea.

_Of all the – _Pivoting, Laguna pulls his gun hard back into his shoulder crease and tensing his trigger finger. He's pissed off now. Like so pissed off it chews up all the fear. "Alright," he says. "What is it now, and how do we kill it?" he growls "'Cause I'm starting to lose my patience with screwed-up shit."

"Not what – " From somewhere beside him, Tifa sounds hesitant. "Who, I think…"

Flicking his eyes through the sight, Laguna looks first at her and then at the guy she's probably talking about. The one that's standing smack in the middle of the whirling darkness, scratching the side of a mummy-bandaged face with a rusty iron talon.

"It's really too bad," says whatever he – _it_ – is. "Minwu had his uses. Tragic to die after such success, really."

Laguna tenses. Marshals every spare ounce of restraint he can find into not blowing this thing's head clear off so they can take their chances with the Cie'th.

"_Nero_." Aerith spits the name like it's poison, and to be frank, Laguna can see why. She spins towards him, eyes lit by grief and the searing green fie of her magic. "What are you doing here?"

"Picking up my package." Idly, the man lifts up his arm, checks for dirt on the tips of his fingers. In the center of the swirling darkness, it almost seems like he's preening. "She turned out quite pretty and clean, I see."

"Sorry to skip the pleasantries, buddy." Laguna's trigger's halfway pressed. He really doesn't like shooting first, but he'll make an exception for assholes who taunt his dead friends. "But you mind telling me what the fuck _you_ are?"

"Oh. You." Nero turns to face him and blinks, slowly. He seems psychotically indifferent to the burning Village outside the cage of darkness. "Irrelevant bother. But the Her Providence has made a bargain, so I suppose I must collect you as well."

Kain's lance moves so quickly Laguna barely notices it come to Nero's neck. He does notice the way he speaks, though. Softly and through bared teeth. "An errand boy." The blade edges down, follows a bandage to the rise of the jugular vein. "Quaint. Have you business other than kidnap? If so – " He flicks his wrist, puts a teasing tear in the fabric. " – do state it."

"You bore me, Kain Highwind." With a lazy roll of his eyes, the blade of the lance twists into a tendril of darkness, and Kain yanks his weapon away before whatever it is can consume the haft. "Really, you're very predictable. You all are." Sighing, he scratches his face again. "But the Goddess' pet seems fond of you, so come along, then. Come along – "

"No thanks." Lightning finally speaks up, and for the first time Laguna notices that the skin beneath her ratty, half-open turtle-neck doesn't show any trace of her brand. And that there's the first all-human looking flush across her cheeks that he's seen since that day she went half-god half-Cie'th, that day in the desert... "Already refused an invitation from one freak today."

"Tsk, tsk." Nero chides and the darkness that enclosed them starts collapsing on all sides, gets smaller and smaller until it's right on top of them; until the mess on the other side seem like silent static on TV. "Now don't be like that." He makes a small, dismissive gesture. "After all, you, little pet, don't have any choice at all."

Laguna doesn't quite know how to describe what happens next. The darkness closes in on them, that part's for sure, but it's not like any magic he's ever really felt before. _If it's even magic at all. _When it touches him, he feels wet cold squirm over his skin like tadpoles or some other awful, blind thing.

He feels like it's turning him inside out. Sucking whatever strength he's got left out through his pores. And when he opens his mouth to scream for Yuna or Tifa or Vaan; to snap some order at Kain or Light, there's nothing. No sound. No light. Not even the feel of air on his tongue.

_Perfect black._ The fear that rips through him stays trapped in his gut. It swirls in the whirlpool of his perception, coming together, falling apart. Like he is. Like they all are.

Things seem to break at the same time they reform. Dully, Laguna thinks Nero must be taking them somewhere, but he can't think it for too long, because _holy shit, _the pain's like nothing he's ever felt before.

_Perfect black. Perfect – _

When Laguna comes to, his senses come back to him slowly, in sloppy, overloud clumps; in shades of cool blue and grey that bless his throbbing eyes. Mashed up against a mineral floor, his cheek is cold and raw. The taste of bloody dirt coats his dry tongue. He smells: brine and stone and black moss; hears: a rushing jumble of his own pulse, the distant roll of currents, words…

_Words. _Words that sound like that Nero prick.

"Hm." The voice sounds only vaguely surprised. "The Lufenian's laboratory? Well. This wasn't quite where I intended…"

Barely able to lift his head, Laguna tries to make sense of the sentences but can't. Decides he'll settle for being alive and work on the rest of it later.

It takes him a little while to notice that Yuna's hand is under his. And her small fingers are spidering beneath her palm, like she's clutching at something, or trying to get up.

Feeling like a pan of stir-fried hell, Laguna groans, does his best to push himself up before helping her to her knees. _The fuck was that?_ "You okay, darlin'?" he asks, not sure if he is.

Yuna shakes her head, hair matted sticky against her face. For the span of half a second, she seems dizzy, confused, but then she closes her eyes and opens them again, turns her lips in a wan smile. "I'm fine," she says. "The _others_."

Scrambling to his knees, Laguna takes a few analytical glances around. Obviously, they're in a massive cavern filled with crystal and granite formations like a science text come to life. But he's not nearly so impressed with that as he is with the fact that somehow – thank whatever there is to thank – everyone who left the Phantom Village in one piece seems roughly to have stayed that way.

Narrowing his eyes, he takes inventory. Yuna, right beside him. Filthy but fine. Vaan, leaning against a wall. He's got a nasty gash on his arm but still, he's reaching down and hauling Tifa to her feet. Kain and Light, off in a corner, her bleeding forehead pressed to his chest. His face is still and stoic, but he whispers something private to the crown of her head, and Laguna thinks she whispers something back.

_And then there's Aerith. _Laguna's chest constricts. She's with Minwu of course. And Minwu's still dead.

"What happened?" The question barely makes it past the lump in his throat. "Darlin' what – what went wrong?"

"Oh, Laguna." There's a glaze of tears in her eyes. In the cool blue light, they sparkle: unshed. "Almost everything. Everything that could have possibly…I…" She breathes in. "I'll fill you in. But Lady Aerith…let's…" Her voice catches. "We should go see her, okay?"

Wordlessly, Laguna nods, pulls Yuna to her feet. And when they walk over to where Aerith sits, the broken body of the First Mage of Fynn limp in her arms, he only wishes he had a few words to give her. But he's out. Plain out. So instead, all he does is stand there a moment, watch as Yuna drops to her knees and puts her arm around the other woman's thin shoulders.

Aerith doesn't look up when she says it, but her voice is strident. "All of you. I'm sorry. I owe you all an explanation." The pain in her voice is so recognizable; so split open that Laguna can barely stand to hear more. "Shinryu…Cid…We were trying to keep you out of it. Everyone but Lightning…" She stops, swallows, starts again. "Cid made a deal with Etro, and Minwu and I –_ we_ – Ellone showed – "

"Later, hon," Laguna puts a hand on the back of her head. It's not the time or place. "How about we leave it alone for now." He speaks softly, quietly and just to her. "For now, why don't you just say goodbye?"

Aerith's trembling under his hand, and he can feel her tense like a coil of rope yanked taut. She doesn't stop until Yuna squeezes her a little harder, presses long, soothing touches into the soft skin of her upper arm.

She nods but doesn't speak. And eventually she just leans her head over his body and keeps it there.

"Lady Aerith," Yuna whispers, and it's so kind and gentle, it almost breaks Laguna's heart in two.

He knows this pain. Knows it like a good, old friend.

Breathing in hard, Laguna tries his best to take stock. To take what's just happened to them and force it into some kind of sense. There's no question Minwu lied to them; no question the guy's lying here because some of those lies went and blew up in his face. But still. There's _also_ no question that he tried his best to be their friend. And that's worth something in his book.

_Besides_, he thinks, _fair's fair_. Gotta judge a man by the whole nine yards. Lies, truth; what he picks up, as well as what leaves behind. But either way, that's stuff to think about down the line. There's no point in going on about it now, here at the end of the day.

_Not now._ No, for now, they bury their dead.

Coming to a knee beside them, Laguna sighs, realizes there's only one thing left for him to do. Achingly, he wipes what blood he can off his hands. Then he reaches out with his two cleanest fingers and he closes the eyes of the First Mage of Fynn.

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER:<strong> On the way to the Last Floor, the party takes a detour into the haunted Laboratory of Cid of the Lufaine where they come face to face with some painful truths. Regrouping, they find solace in each other, but can they find another way before the gods start a war that will tear the Rift apart?

* * *

><p><strong>Additional AN (1):** Both FFVII girls had lying issues. I think that makes them much more interesting.

**Additional A/N (2):** Lightning's vision in the mirror was inspired by the ending of XIII-2, RotG (unfortunately) as well as the following fragments: the Mirror of Atropos, the Violet Tablet, and the Paradox Ending "Beneath a Timeless Sky". Where I am going with this relies heavily on references to fragments/analects, and whatever sense my mind can pull from the utterly nonsensical canon of FNC.

**Additional A/N (3)**: I try and think of action/magic sequences I'd like to play in an actual game and then write them down. Also, I like to think that traditions somehow make it from one FF to another. Thus Yuna gets stories about Rydia and Minwu, the same way that Freya and Fang and all the other notable dragoons since IX get Kain's lost lance.


	16. CXII: The Mercy of Salt Rivers

The Door of Souls – Chapter XII: The Mercy of Salt Rivers 

**Beta:** You know who. Distant Glory is, in a word, glorious.  
><strong>AN: <strong>Quieter. Bridge to the third act. Holy smokes we are close. Note the epilogue will be a critical piece of the storytelling here. As always, explanatory notes at the end.  
><strong>Warning<strong>: I write about grownups. They think and act like them. Except a bit more heroic.  
><strong>Rec: <strong>Sunnepho wrote a piece called Wake for the VII fandom that I could all-day drown in. Clean, literary, incisive: one of the best things I have read on this site. Matched by salted's Empty Vessels, the fourth chapter of which is divine and should be read ravenously once posted.  
><strong>Again: <strong>I honestly cannot thank all of you enough for your comments. They inspire.

* * *

><p>"<em>Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don't know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It's that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don't know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless."<em>

― Paul Bowles_, The Sheltering Sky_

* * *

><p>To tell the truth, Vaan's never been comfortable around rivers.<p>

From what he remembers, Rabanastre's a desert town, and most of the time, sand makes him feel better than sea. Sun-warm and clean smelling, he even likes the way it moves in a storm. Like it's magick or something, a brush the wind uses to draw.

Rivers, on the other hand, have a mind of their own. Vaan shifts suspiciously on his sits bones, glares at the water while he wipes salt spray from his mouth. _Rivers do what they want. _They're too deep and you can't see through them, and when they're this big, they growl the same way monsters do when they eat.

_Plus_ (he can't help but think), _once you throw something in there, who knows where it'll end up. _The current'll just take it away,he guesses. Drag it off to some drowned place, filled with black water and marshweed and tangled-up things.

Shivering in the rough wind off the water, Vaan pulls his knife from his belt and worries the point in a hairline fracture in the cavern floor. He really doesn't know why he's doing it – the blade's dull enough as it is – other than he's not too keen on thinking about what'll happen to Minwu's body once they let it go in there.

_It'll break_, he thinks, gauging the strength of the current; narrowing his eyes at waves that twist over themselves like snakes. And sure, he was as mad at Minwu as anyone could've been, but to have him go out like _this…_Vaan shakes his head, pushes a crusty strand of hair behind his ear. He's got no idea what to think about it. The feelings don't make sense. All they do is pace around in his gut, arguing with each other and making him feel a bit sick.

Spitting out the salt that's bossed its way past his lips, Vaan feels his expression go tight. He's trying his best to shrug off the weight – be a bit more like Laguna – but he can't because they're laying out the body right now. Well, Aerith and Yuna are anyway_. _He doesn't have a clue where anyone else is. Sorting it out in their own way, probably. Doing whatever it is people do when someone up and dies when they're not supposed to. Before you get a chance to tell them what you wanted to say.

Another gust of wind chucks more cold in his face, and Vaan thinks he doesn't really want to look at the river anymore. Agitated, his stinging eyes go everywhere, and he can't get over how much this place looks like some kind of maze on the moon. Loose tooth stalactites on the ceiling; soap-bubble salt-crystals on the ground. _And the mana…_Blue and pulsing, the deposits throb in the walls like veins in an old lady's hands.

And then there's the crystal ore caterpillars. The ones that nose at Yuna's Wayfarer's Circle like they're bored and want something to do.

Suddenly curious, Vaan comes up to his knee and stares. _This is the stuff that manikins are made of_. What really started this whole mess. The crap that happened back in Dissidia. The Empyreal Paradox. _Getting stuck here. Light's brand going nuts. Minwu – _

Well, yeah. Minwu.

Vaan's got a fistful of loose stones in his hand before he can ask himself what good it'll do. He just grabs them, winds his shoulder back and wails them off. Smiles as the liquid splatters apart, rushes off to a corner to chatter and hide.

It feels good. So good he finds himself picking up another bunch and throwing more, even after he notices footsteps behind him, grinding pebbles into the ground.

_Kain, probably, _Vaan thinks. He can tell by the weight of them, and how slow they go.

"Hey, Kain," he says, still focused on the way the rocks leave rainbow ripples in Yuna's spells.

"Vaan," Kain replies. His voice sounds like a shrug.

"They ready?" Vaan's still staring out at the more or less empty dark. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Kain's just wearing one of Laguna's tank tops and a pair of loose blue slacks, but that makes sense, since he's the one who's got to carry Minwu in the river. "Should I get out of the way?"

Like usual, Kain doesn't answer right away. Settling down beside him, he leans over, plucks Vaan's knife out of the crack he stuck it in. "No." The sound of a dull blade pulling over a calloused thumb underlines the word. "Sit if you wish."

"Alright." A bit annoyed that Kain would just grab his stuff like that, Vaan swivels quickly, turns all the way back around. "You mind giving me back my knife?"

Letting out a low laugh, Kain shakes his head, runs the blade harmlessly over the palm of his clawed-up right hand. Inclining his head, he smiles a sharp half smile like there's actually some kind of debate. "Yes, frankly," is all he says before he tosses it off into the distance, in the same direction as the stones.

As it skids against the cavern floor, reformed crystal-ore bugs scatter, then chase after it like fetch.

"Hey." Vaan's actually kind of pissed now because the last thing he wants to do is go dig his dagger out of a pile of manikin goo. "What'd you do that for? That knife – "

" – hardly deserves the name," Kain interrupts, pushing strands of sticky, ash blond hair from his mouth has he says it. "I'd not shave with it, let alone fight. Here – " Leaning over, he reaches into his boot, fishes something out and tosses it over. "Use this."

"Hunh?" Vaan makes a small, caught-off-guard noise, but he snatches whatever it is out of the air before it smacks him in the face. He's about to go on, say something about how it's rude to just throw out things people were still using when he realizes that he's holding a replacement long knife, oiled and wrapped tight in a makeshift leather case.

Pulled out of its sheathe, the edge is so sharp it slits blue light into white. Testing the weight in his hand, Vaan's got to smirk. He'll be the first to admit that Kain's got his problems, but weapons, well. Weapons aren't one of them.

Idly, he thinks that probably means the guy doesn't have much of a life, but hey. _Can't have everything._

"Thanks," Vaan says, tucking it into his belt. "But what'll you do? You got an extra one or something?"

Reclining on his forearms, Kain just makes one of those haughty sounds that he uses to mean just about everything from "stand still while I kill you," to "yes, I'll have some cheese". In this case Vaan just translates it as "I'll be fine" and lets the whole thing drop.

They sit in silence for a while, just watching the river. And as the ruthless black water barrels through the cavern, Vaan can't help but wonder how old it is. How long it's been here, what it's seen. This is Cid's Lab after all, and Yuna says she can feel hundreds of thousands of years in the air. Her Dad told her stories about it – _Great Caves, he called them_ – and the gist's that it's kind of like an echo chamber. The water picks up the core of whatever's lived here longest and just carries it out as crystal. Scatters it out somehow, to all the thirteen worlds.

It connects them, he supposes. Kind of like the way the same ocean touches all kinds of different shores.

_Does that mean everyone gets all the weapons Minwu kept here? _Vaan shivers, pulls his vest closed. _Or a Cid of their own? _Fidgeting, he thumbs the hilt of his new knife and doesn't think that makes him feel any better. But then again, it's complicated. Cid was crazy, but he was a genius. And even according to Minwu, he was okay before the war screwed him up. _He made airships, after all… _

Sighing, Vaan doesn't know. How to judge Cid or Minwu or Aerith. Or Teefs, even. How to say goodbye to a guy he thought he hated but probably didn't; a brother he can't even remember; a whole world, maybe, a home he doesn't really think he'll ever see again.

"Hey Kain?" Vaan nudges the silence. Probably the last person he should be talking about this with is Kain, but he's still not all that comfortable with talking to Teefs, and Light and Laguna spend most of their time telling him what to do or how to feel, so Vaan decides he's basically all there is left.

"Mm?" The bone-freezing wind's whipping hair across Kain's eyes so Vaan can't tell if he's looking at him or not. "What?"

Hugging his knees to his chest, Vaan shrugs. "You ever think about what'll happen to us if we end up stuck here? You know, if we really can't get back to where we came from?" Pausing, he reaches up to slowly scratch his nose. "I mean, I know I can't remember my brother and everything, but even if I could – even if Aerith and Minwu hadn't messed with my head – would it really matter, you think?"

Kain shifts his weight slightly but otherwise stays still and distant, like some statue in some harbor town. He waits for a gust of freezing, gritty spray to pass before he replies, "I'm sorry – what?"

"I mean, we'd still be here, right?" Vaan struggles with what he means. "We'd still have to try and make the best of it, wouldn't we?"

"Perhaps." Kain turns and the blueness of the cavern creeps through the tiny lines around his eyes, makes him look older than he is. "And your point?"

Frustrated, Vaan rubs goosebumps from his arms before going on. "It's _just_ – " He stops, looks for other words that'll say it better but can't find them. " – it's just that it still sucks, I guess." Picking up some more rocks, he aims them into the river this time, watches as the current eats them up. "I mean, it's not like I don't know the right answer. I know Minwu's dead and everything and we've got to keep moving and I shouldn't be pissed or feel sorry for myself because he's got it worse, but I – _well_ – " He flicks the dirt from under his nails. "I guess I just still am. I kinda don't know what to do with it, that's all."

Coming up off his forearms, Kain doesn't say anything for a little while. He just brushes the pebbles off his elbows, takes all the time in the universe to find a comfortable way to sit. When he finally gets around to talking, he almost sounds surprised. "Are you asking me advice?"

Vaan shrugs. _Not really_. He wanted to get it off his chest, but other than that, he supposes he's not sure what he was looking for.

"Maybe not," Vaan says, finally.

Leaning forward over his knees, Kain just stares at the far bank. For a second, it seems like he's done talking completely, but just as Vaan thinks he's about to get up and walk off, he lets out a low sigh, knots his brows together, starts to talk. He doesn't turn though. He just keeps facing out to whatever he's looking at, whatever he sees on the other side.

"Every man loses things, Vaan," he begins, eyes shadowed from the way he holds his head. "Every man. Of every class and station. Sometimes in a moment, though usually there's warning enough." Stopping for a second, he scoops up a single stone, worries it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. "For some, the loss is fatal. For others, it counts its cost in years."

"Okay." Blinking, Vaan pinches the bridge of his nose, thinks that if they gave out awards for talking in circles, Kain'd win some kind of medal. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You survived a heavy blow," Kain answers simply. The edge of his mouth flickers up, but he still sounds thoughtful. "More than one. Many would give much, for that. As for 'what to do'– " His hand moves so fast, Vaan only sees the smallest splash as the stone skips a whole two times over vicious water. "Do what you can. Credit yourself. Stop troubling your thoughts for answers." He stops, flicks cracked nail polish from his finger. "I assure you, there are none."

Shifting so he's sitting cross-legged, Vaan inclines his head, thinks about it. He can't tell whether Kain's really answered him or not, but there's something in what he said that seems right. _Try your best,_ is what he thinks it boils down to. _You've done okay. Not everything's going to make sense._

He can get behind that, Vaan supposes, thinking about it. That probably makes the most sense of anything anyone's told him until now.

Looking over to him for just a second, Vaan can't help but think it's a little odd. Kain's one of those guys that everyone likes to call out on stuff – what he did in the war, being a loner or kind of an ass, sometimes. But it seems obvious that he's been through something pretty crappy, and that whatever magick made that evil twin out of him hit him hard below the belt. It seems kind of low to rub that in, no matter how he deals with it.

Besides, he thinks, it takes guts to do what you think is right when you know everyone's going to hate you for it. And Vaan can respect that. In Kain. In Minwu. And Aerith too, now that he thinks of it_._

Vaan smirks over that last thought. He doesn't know if he's quite ready to forgive her, but he feels a weight come off his chest anyway.

"Hey." Reaching over to pat Kain on the back, Vaan lets out a quick laugh. "Was that some kind of compliment?"

Picking up another stone, Kain turns finally turns to look at him. Snorting a soft laugh, he replies, "No." The second stone skips across the river, makes it three jumps instead of two. "Just an observation."

"And I'd be careful of those, if I were you." It's Laguna's voice that sends Vaan's eyes back over his shoulder. Still bruised from the fight, he's got a lopsided grin on his face. anyway Walking beside him, Lightning's got his machine gun over her shoulder for some reason. "They're usually barbed."

"Or boneheaded," Lightning adds, but there's a careful smile playing on her face when she says it, and when she settles down beside Kain, Vaan notices he doesn't look mad.

"Better that than simply wrong." Kain's retort is amused, and he seems more concerned with running a lazy finger over the back of Light's hand than taking the bait. "No, Laguna?"

Plopping down on Vaan's other side, Laguna winks. "You ever going to get over the Melmond Fens thing, Highwind?" Rolling his shoulder, he grins. "Didn't take you _that _long to dig us out. Besides – " he elbows Vaan lightly in the ribs " – your little brother got a lot of practice out there, and we – "

"C'mon guys." Vaan cuts the story off at the pass. If he hears Lightning snark about how the two of them lost Garland in there one more time he thinks he might up and toss her in the river. "Not again."

"Alright, alright, kiddo." Laguna gives up easy. "No more war stories," he promises, but when he speaks again he sounds sad, and the words are soft enough that they're nearly crushed by another brawny gust of wind off the water. "We just came to let you know they're probably going to be down here soon. We should get ready."

"Right," Vaan says. Scrambling a little, he starts to get up, but the second he's about to bounce to his feet, Lightning reaches over to his shoulder and pushes down. Hard.

Off-balance and not expecting it, Vaan trips back to his seat. Scowls as yet more pebbles find their way into parts of his clothing that _really _don't need any more pebbles – _or dirt, or Cie'th guts_ – in them.

"_Hey – _"

"_Soon_." Lightning cuts him off, repeats what Laguna just said. "Not yet." Pausing, her hand softens, and she pats his back gently. As gently as she's ever touched him, actually. "It's just…getting a bit heavy back there." She stops to toss knotty hair out of her face before gesturing back to Library with her chin. "So we thought we'd sit with you for a bit. That okay by you?" Nudging Kain with her shoulder, there's something relaxed in her eyes. "Or you guys bonding or something?"

Still distracted by how nice she's being, Vaan cocks his head and looks at her – really looks at her – for the first time since her brand's come off. And even though she looks skinnier than usual, and tired, her face seems healthy and pink. There's no trace of that screwy perfect whiteness there, or anything evil wrapping itself around her neck.

Vaan thinks, "_Thanks Minwu,"_ before he even really realizes he's done it.

"Nah," he says, finally. "We're done with the man-talk now, Light. You can stay." Turning his head, he grins sarcastically at Laguna. "You too, Mom."

"Hey now." Pressing his hand to his chest, Laguna fakes looking shocked. "I take offense to that, kiddo. I'm not old enough to be your Mommy. And I can be bromantic with the best of 'em, you know." Pulling his jacket closed over the cold, he grins. "You got a preference for flowers there, Highwind? Snapdragons maybe? Or how about chocolates? Serenades?"

Not paying attention, Kain pauses to brush a wilding lock of hair out of Lightning's eyes before he reclines back on his forearms again. "As the lady wishes," he says, smirking, and Vaan can't tell if he's talking to her or calling Laguna a girl or both, maybe. "I've no preference."

All Light does is make that clicking noise against the top of her mouth then look away so nobody can see her smile. "No singing," she says after a while.

"No?" Laguna sounds hurt.

"No way," Vaan agrees.

They're quiet after that, the four of them. And as Vaan feels the grit of more spray on his face, he can't help but notice all the different places everyone's eyes go. Laguna's up at the top of the cavern, looking amazed. Light's closed, but with her fingers resting on Kain's. Kain's out to the east, to the black and blue confusion of the corridors beyond, the way they double back on themselves and don't really lead anywhere at all.

Barely noticed in front of them, the river itself just rushes on. Takes its mysteries and runs with them, down to wherever it is water goes when it's trying to find the sea.

* * *

><p>In the baked-flesh stink of the Rift's great lava fissure, Cid Raines stands with his boot on Gabranth's chest and waits for an answer.<p>

Because the man's mouth is swollen wreckage, he waits for some time. And in the silence – broken only by lewd burps of magma and his own bored interrogation – he considers.

He considers the dry and blackened limbs of the garden of corpses surrounding him. Forgotten and petrified, they intertwine in fresco: a study in vines or in thorns.

"Where did they _go_, creature?"

He considers the fact that everything here smells like nails. The rust smells like nails. The cinders in his mouth smell like nails. The sweat of the man beneath the point of his blade smells like nails.

"Shinryu's Protection fails. The Phantom Village lies in ruin. They have fled. Tell me where."

He considers the truth, crueler than this grave of broken swords. He never wished to be a murderer. He never wished for any of it to come to this. To become the kind of man who lords over a defeated foe like some jailor, stirred to arousal by every petty cruelty.

"It is very dangerous to waste my time." Pressing his heel into the pulp caged in Gabranth's chest plate, Raines continues, "Speak."

Only silence fills the pause after his command, and Raines suppresses a sneer. In all the dateless lives he has been forced to live since Etro shattered time – even after he set the Ugallu to Paddra, after he shepherded Oerba to ruin – the very last thing he wanted was to be was a man who broke other men for sport.

And yet here he is. This is _what _he is; what he has come to, in the end.

The smallest of sighs betrays his frustration. Behind him, Vercingetorix only laughs.

"_So sad, Cid Raines, so sad for you." _His voice is the rasp of hornets; the wake of his flapping wings, an unsettled wind over sclerotic earth._ "So lost, little noble pretty pretty, you should weep and weep and cry, so merciful and kind, a slave that weeps…_"

"Silence, Vercingetorix." Ignoring the taunt, Raines makes an attempt to focus on the task at hand. With a flick of his wrist, he presses his blade flush against the raw meat of Gabranth's neck. "And _you_. Answer me. Where did they go?"

For the first time since being ground into the dirt, Gabranth makes a noise. A laugh. Weak, it flaps through tattered lips, rolls over a row of broken teeth. "…I know not…" he coughs and there is blood in it. "Nor…would I tell you…if I did..."

Irritated because he knows the words to be true, Raines Enflames his sword, feels skin blister against it. "Do not mistake me for a pawn in the Dragon's game." Raines cannot be bothered to glare. "I am not to be toyed with."

"…oh…" Gabranth's face is that of a man skinned alive, but still his eyes blaze: chips of blue beneath a yellow ledge of bone. "…I know of you…_Cid_ _Raines_…" Pausing, he spits out chips of enamel, little pink hunks of tongue. His head lolls sideways, into the rust. "…and your viper goddess…" He smiles a decimated smile. "…and the ways…you may…or may not…be toyed with."

"Then you know your fate, should you fail to answer me." Raines does sneer now, and it hurts his mouth. "The Gates of Song are closed now. The only path from the Phantom Village is through your lair. _Now – _" carefully, he scores a line in Gabranth's neck " – tell me – " the cut grins, wide " – _where_ – " cartilage shows white through red " – they _went_."

For a man with half a tongue left in his mouth, Gabranth voice resounds. In the ash and smoke, it twists. "You think…I _care_ for what…you do to me…puppet?" What remains of his body tenses beneath Raines' foot. "…Shinryu…will tear the Rift apart…The curtain falls…on this farce…" Struggling to lift his head, he snorts like a pig through a prolapsed nose. "…And I am _glad_ of it…"

"_It tells the truth, this sack of thing, it knows nothing, is nothing, wants nothing. We waste time; time wastes us, Cid Raines."_ Winging up beside him, Vercingetorix presses his rotting face to Raines' cheek. The words burrow in his ears. _"The eyes of Hallowed Pulse and Fell Lindzei do not see her, she is hidden from us, lost and gone. You think the sack-thing sees her, are you stupid too, Cid Raines, stupid, sorry sad Cid Raines?" _

"No." Raines doesn't bother looking up. Vercingetorix is obviously correct. But if their Gods cannot see Etro's Undying in the Rift any longer, then they must use more conventional means to find her. "I am thorough."

Something that sounds like a chuckle dribbles from Gabranth's fractured mouth, along with more blood, more spit. "This abortion…knows better…than you…Raines…" he mutters, and delirium turns up the pitch in his voice "…lunatic gods…lunatic world…Shinryu will…consume all…"

Spitting slag, Raines sheathes his sword at the same time he lifts his boot. _It makes no sense,_ he thinks, crashing it down on the soft ruin of Gabranth's abdomen. There is no place in the Rift the Eyes of Lindzei do not reach. _And they are not dead._ _Etro would have wailed_ –

"_Pretty, pretty, plays too much with his food." _Impatient, Vercingetorix flutters at his side. A rotting finger withdraws from an eye-socket, smears creamy membrane across Raines' cheek. "_I do not smell her here, Etro's Undying. She was there, in the burned down place, with the rotten ones, and it is there we should go, there we should seek."_

Turning to face him for the first time, Raines battles his own expression. "There is nothing left of the Phantom Village, Vercingetorix. What little remains, Barthandelus picks over with the dog we pulled from the Lunarian mirror." Not bothering to wipe the grime from his face, he crosses his arms. "You repeat yourself."

By way of response, Vercingetorix beats his wings, corkscrews up through the high reaches of the cavern. He wears the ribbons of rust that follow him the way his flesh wears decay: proudly, with the bearing of a lord.

_Of wreckage, _Raines thinks but does not say. _Of ruined empires. Of broken things. _

"_Do not speak to me in this way, pretty puppet." _Vercingetorix's silhouette is a black and edgeless illusion in heat-fermented air. _"I am no servant of yours, I hear no words from you that I do not choose to hear."_

"Vercingetorix," he orders, impatient. "Stop posturing. The Gods – "

"_Your Gods, Cid Raines. It is not I who fear Them, Cid Raines; not I who cringe and cringe and womanly cry beneath the thumb of Fell Lindzei." _The haughty voice stinks of sulfur._ "Hallowed Pulse has made me this and still I do not fear, do not care; it matters not for this task, the task we share." _He looks down, and the whorish red of the magma cuts grinning shade across his face. "_I speak only because you are scared, Cid Raines, and you must find her you must find her; yes, yes you must…" _

Raines' sneer comes naturally this time. "_We_ must," he corrects. "We are under the same orders, you and I."

"_We are and we are not, pretty petty, pretty fool." _Vercingetorix's body squirms over a stationary point in the air, a still-living insect, pinned to a board. "_We a share a task, you and I, but it is not the task you think, at all. It is nothing of what you know. Even Caius, knows, Caius Ballad, and he is stupid, but not so stupid as you."_

"Vercingetorix." Frenzied flapping kicks iron dust in Raines' eyes, but he pays it no mind. The insane babble of Hallowed Pulse's Undying is beginning to wear on him. "What is your play in this?"

The scabs on Vercingetorix's mouth stretch, as if smiling. "_A play it is and it is not, pretty pretty." _He flips, and his warts are constellations of ruby and gold in a burning sky of soot. "_A play and a wager and a game for Lightning Farron, to see what she can do and what she will do for the hot thing; if she can bring the thing they fear, that will take Them and Their Father far down low, where they will lick my feet." _

"Your words mean nothing." Raines can't control the disgust on his face. It is nearly indistinguishable from the sensation of drifting ash, the obscene waves of heat.

"_Pretty toy of Sage Lindzei, you know nothing at all, you know nothing." _The puff of an emaciated chest disturbs the maggots that live there. Lacking eyes, those that wriggle free do not see themselves burn to cinders in the air. "_Lightning Farron: we are her and she is us, Cid Raines. We Undying that are of the gods and not of them, the mistake that will break them all when the hot thing comes. You do not see but I see it; and you do not know but I know it. But yes, we can call it a game if you please, if you want. Yes, let us call it a play."_

"Hallowed Pulse bid you come here." The words grind in Raines' teeth. What Vercingetorix proposes is madness and blasphemy. Nothing lies beyond Bhunivelze. Whatever destroys him is the end of all things. "He did not do so to herald his own destruction."

"_Hallowed Pulse's mind is not your mind." _Vercingetorix's narrow frame seems to convulse. And when he spins, a horde of embers rises in rebellion from the magma flats below. _"And my mind is not His, and who are you to say what He would have me do; Pulse the Lord of Titan, who burns that which does not work. He who deemed men useless and bid his fal'Ce destroy us each by all and one by one. He who raised thirteen arks for the slaying of stars?" _He hisses, and Raines thinks he sounds almost playful._ "Or maybe He does not even know it, the thing that I have seen. That He will come to ruin soon and the rotten ones will have revenge, that you and I will have revenge, Cid Raines." _

Vercingentorix's shadow is all steep cuts and right angles, and as Raines eyes the lines they draw in on the black-sand shore of the magma flow, he cannot tell if the emotion he feels rising in his chest is or is not pity.

There is no such thing as revenge. Only violence that multiplies itself. That Vercingetorix still sees a point in fighting over the scraps of a world destined to die is insanity in its purest form.

What is true is this: the Gods will have their wars and Raines no longer cares. _Let it burn._ He will watch and then he will sleep.

"Your resistance is stupidity." Raines feels superheated grit in his nostrils as he breathes, and it all still smells of nails. Bitterly, he wonders if he shouldn't just stop. Breathing is a habit of mortals and he is no longer one of those. "If you plan treachery, you will only die again. Hallowed Pulse will break you utterly. Now come down. There is work to be done."

"_Do rulers always break the ruled, Cid Raines; does not the master always fear the rising of his slaves?" _ The fingers in Vercingetorix's eyes twitch, retract, reveal hollow sockets lined in blue veins, black blood, white nerve. "_Does Lindzei know your name Cid Raines, what does it mean to speak a human name? If you think we have no power then what is for you pretty, pretty? What can there be for you but the life of a pet?"_

"Do as you will." Raines is only angry now. He has heard these speeches already, a thousand times and more. They do nothing and mean nothing. "Go. Stay. Lie to yourself. I have no patience for this."

"_Perhaps."_ Spread wide, Vercingetorix's six wings are sentient beings unto themselves. Wide and powerful, the body hung between them is only rotted string. "_Of course I could lie, Cid Raines. I am lying, yes. I will always lie, Cid Raines, except when I do not."_

"…pathetic…" Raines turns. He'd almost forgotten Gabranth still claws at life among the garbage. "…your gods…meaningless…" He wheezes a laugh through the open wound of his mouth. "…Shinryu…comes…to feast now…you will burn…where you stand…as _he_ will…"

Raines catches the emphasis immediately and draws his blade over it. "As _who_?" He whirls, sets the point against a shattered chin. "Tell me."

"…who…do you think…" Gabranth looks at the blade as if he is bored. But he finds and holds Raines' eyes deliberately, as if he is making a confession. "…you believe…the Village fell…by your hand alone?...Slave eyes…see nothing…but their own slavery…."

The answer comes to Raines immediately, riding a crest of rage. The Lufenian. The _Lufenian's Laboratory._ They could be no other place. He had assumed the First Mage spoke true, that there was nothing that creature would do to risk Shinryu's rage, to jeopardize Dissidia. _But if Minwu rebelled, if he turned Cid against his master –_

Raines almost cries out in rage. It ought to have been obvious. Cid. Lightning Farron. The rest. They are all hunted now.

Furious or disgusted, he throws the words over his shoulder to Vercingetorix. "They are in the Lufenian's Laboratory," he spits. "Gather Barthandelus and the others. Make for the river. There may yet be time before they reach the Last Floor. Go. Go _now._"

It is an ugly, arterial squawk of glee Vercingetorix keens, and it careens through the cavern like some rabid, frothing thing. It leaves its stench in the air long after he has gone; long after Raines realizes that he is still standing there, keeping watch alone over a laughing corpse.

He looks down. Beneath a crushed brow, Gabranth's eyes simmer with spoiled hate. Raines can no longer tell if they are red or blue and it does not matter. After a second, he wonders why he noticed.

"…Cid Raines…" The skull smiles. "…tell me…what was the price…of all…your power?"

Raines raises his sword.

"You have been useful. This will be quick." Pausing, he adds, "Thank you."

Light from the magma gleams over bleeding steel.

"No," Gabranth replies. "Thank you."

Raines shakes his head. Then, with a heavy arm, he sends the Judge Magister home.

* * *

><p>Kneeling at the river's edge, Aerith wonders if it always has to come down to water.<p>

Idly, she uses the tip of her finger to draw a pattern in the freezing current, feels the gritty sting of the salt abrade her skin. _And this isn't kind water._ Not like the soft, clear pool in the Temple, where her body still drifts. Or the spring snowmelt in Midgar's city streets; silver streams that wiggled through black gutters, kept her flowers alive in the poisoned world.

_No._ A stiff wind from the bowels of the cavern grabs fists of undone hair and pulls. This river is a force of nature. And like any force of nature, it must destroy as much as it feeds. _Or more, _she thinks, pushing her hand in deeper and wincing at the bracing cold, the bruising force.

_Or more._

There's no feeling in Aerith's submerged fingers anymore. Pale and distorted in the black water, she watches them with dull, cried-out eyes. It seems like they've disconnected from her. A part of her body the river's claimed for its own.

Somewhere beside her, alien light gleams off the salt crystals that crust the water's edge, and it suddenly seems to Aerith that's she lost in a parallel world. An inverted grey-scale place, filled with nothing but grains of salt that drift like snow.

"I didn't know it was customary to wash dead meat, flower girl." Nero's words come from somewhere behind them, and they're fingers. They ping the ravaged nerves behind her eyes. "This is a waste. Her Providence is waiting. We must be on our way"

Aerith would answer, but her throat hurts. She doesn't know if that's from weeping or the cold or because she just feels so incredibly sick. "Nero." His name is terra corrupt, and it tastes of melting plastic and smoke. "Not now_._ Please. Can't you just – "

" – shut the fuck up?" Lightning's voice snaps in time with the safety on her gunblade. The click is a period. The end of everything she's going to say.

"There's no need for vulgarity, pet." The sound of iron wings folding. _Like open scissors, closing. _"Her Providence isn't fond of such language."

There is tense shifting. A sound of disgust from Vaan. The slide of pebbles as Tifa edges away.

"Well." Laguna's voice is a bright, new razor; shiny and sharp. She hears him shake a cartridge in place. "I don't know that we're so fond of you, buddy. So how 'bout you keep it to yourself?"

"Very well." Nero bristles. "Have it your way."

That Aerith's mind answers him with an inane, silent _"yes, we will" _is something she takes as evidence that she's losing her grip on things. That she's gone someplace disconnected and cold. Colder than the river. Colder than the shifting stones that shred her knees. Colder than the tears that needle down her face right now, so precise that she can barely feel them.

They fall into the water and the current swallows them. _They never existed at all._

Aerith hangs her head. She doesn't know exactly why she does it, other than she can't figure out what else to do.

_Minwu. _His name hurts everywhere. _How can I do this without you? How can I do this alone? _

It was his plan. Etro and Lindzei; Cid and Shinryu. He was the one who set up the board; but she's the only one left playing. Sighing, Aerith bends forward, presses her numb hand down through the swirling black until it hits the river bed. The cold claws her nerves. She doesn't have a choice except to play on, but she's dizzy. And everything seems wrong; like all of sudden everyone's started speaking a language she doesn't understand.

Aerith knows they've come with the body because she tastes Yuna's spells. Summoners' magic has the freshness of spring in it, the sugar of newborn cherry blossoms, and even though she hasn't turned from the river as she and Kain come closer the sweetness sharpens. _Shell and Protect_, she identifies the spells, _so the current can't hurt him anymore_.

Kain addresses her first, and formally.

"My Lady." The cavern is brutally cold, but when Minwu's broken-backed shadow falls over her, she can still feel it crawl over her skin. "It's time."

Finally turning away from the water, Aerith looks up. Kain's face is stark but kind, and the blue light of the cavern falls deep into his eyes. Behind him, Yuna wears the traditional robes of the White Order, and in the muscular wind, they billow like the sails of ships leaving home.

"Do not mourn that we are tired – " Kain speaks words of Mysidian high custom and for a brilliant, nonsense second, Aerith thinks he's talking in Minwu's voice " – for other loves await us."

"Hate on and love through unrepining hours," Aerith completes the traditional phrase as she rises, but it feels like chewing dry leaves, "Before us lies eternity; our souls are love, and a continual farewell."

"He died well. Take comfort by that." Falling out of register, Kain whispers the words lowly, and the river nearly drowns them. "Mind you keep close behind."

The first steps Kain takes into the frigid river cut a wide enough track in the river for Aerith to follow in. But while he takes the brutal force of the water on her behalf, there's absolutely nothing to shield her from the venomous, bone-deep chill of it. Even more than the salt, it corrodes her, seeps into her pores, changes her. Some part of her will always be cold now; will never leave this strange, dark place.

Painfully, it dawns on her that this is what it feels like to be left behind. And every angry word she ever said to Tifa twists in her stomach.

_In a way_, Aerith thinks, delirious cold pulling truth from the places she'd been hiding it, _the dead have it easy_. They don't have to mourn. They don't have to choose how to do better, to honor the life that was lost, to go on.

"_Live for what?" _ Minwu's voice comes back to her, pensive and wise. A warm thought in the frozen water. "_If there's nothing to stand for?"_

She watches the pounding fists of the current crush the First Mage's white, white robes, and feels like maybe she's beginning to understand. What her old life was, what her death meant, what she has to do next.

Kain stops somewhere close to the middle of the river, as deep as he can go without losing his balance. The current batters him, and Aerith thinks that the salt in some of his half-closed wounds must hurt terribly. He doesn't show it though, because he never does. He just stands and turns to face her, holds Minwu as securely as he can. Blue lipped and soaked through, his hair is plastered to the side his face.

They look at each other for a moment, and Aerith's eyes fall down his body until she's looking at Minwu's slack face. She barely notices when Kain nods. Tells her without speaking this is as far as he can safely go, and that it's time to say goodbye.

It's not easy to take those last few steps towards them. The current is punishing, her legs are scraped raw with cold, and she's still not thinking straight. But she manages somehow, and when she finally gets close enough to press her brow to Minwu's she finds the physical pain doesn't bother her anymore.

Sticky and plaint, his skin doesn't feel right. And when she puts her lips to his, they're cold and stiff. The saline grit makes them taste artificial, falsely preserved.

"You were right," Aerith says because she doesn't have anything left to say. She couldn't make him believe she really loved him when he was alive, and it seems ridiculous to try and convince him now. Besides, she has a more important promise to make. "I won't let you down. I'll make it right. I – "

A ragged scream of wind from deep in the cavern steals the rest of Aerith's words from her lips. Kain struggles to keep upright, and even though he finds a way to keep his footing, savage waves bully them both; furious they've stayed too long in a place they were never meant to be.

The Lifestream whispers that it's time to go, and for the first time in as long as Aerith can remember, she agrees with it.

"I'm going to miss you, honey." Swallowing, Aerith lifts a dripping hand to Minwu's face, tells him the rest of what she has to say. Black as the water, his hair tangles around the blue tips of her fingers, and she brushes it from his eyes, one last time. "I'm going to miss you so much. Goodbye." She stops, forces the word out of her throat again, just so she knows it's real. "Goodbye."

Kain lets go of the body almost immediately after Aerith backs away. The river wastes no time stealing it, either. It's gone in seconds, tossed away by a tide that has no patience for them anymore.

Aerith controls the buckling in her knees. She focuses only on walking back to the shore. Leading this time, she forces herself not to look back; to walk straight through the pummeling waves to the safety of dry land. To Tifa, who's waiting at the shore, eyes and arms wide open, ready to fold her in warmth.

"I'm sorry." Wet and frozen blue, Aerith steps into the hug like she would any other shelter. And the words just come out, one after the other, searching for all the time they lost. "I can't even tell you how sorry I am. I was wrong. I – "

"Oh, Aerith. It's okay," Tifa whispers, threading her hand through soaking, salt-wrecked strings of hair. "You're my _friend_. I forgive you. I'm not mad."

All Aerith can do is nod against her shoulder. And even though there's no current pulling her anymore, even though she's as safe as she's been in a very long time, she still feels like she needs to hold on.

The next few moments pass in fragmented quiet. Marred only every once in a while by Nero's brittle, birdish scratching and the conspiring rush of the wind. It isn't until Aerith senses Yuna's magic rise again that it changes; that it's broken up by awed intakes of breath, by Tifa putting her hands on clammy shoulders, and oh so gently turning her around.

"Aerith," she whispers, and there are tears in her voice. "Look."

Shivering, Aerith blinks, swallows, complies. And even though her eyes are stinging with cold and brutal salt, she can still see what Yuna's doing, how she's dancing – as she always dances – for the peace of those that pass.

The violence of the river doesn't touch her. She walks on it like it's glass. And as she follows ancient steps in rhythmic turns and spins, the robes of the White Order slither to her elbows and blow wild in the wind. She's pure white on black water. She's grace in a barren land. She summons pyreflies from the secret spaces of the cavern, and when they gather to her skirts, they dance with her because they must.

_Because they love her too. _Aerith's breath stops in her throat. Liquid light sets frozen pillars of salt on fire. No other thoughts come to her, except that Minwu would have loved to see this. He would have thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. _In any world._

When the Sending is finished, Yuna comes back to shore with slow steps. And she nods at Laguna and Lightning, who – moving together in one step – cock their guns, fire two sharp volleys straight up into the air.

"Thanks for being kind to Ellone, buddy." Throwing his machine gun over his shoulder, Laguna offers a crisp, professional salute off into the dark. "Thanks for saving our lives."

Closing her eyes, Aerith lets the words fade away. She thinks they're as good and kind and noble as he is, but she knows that "thanks" isn't what Minwu wanted. All he wanted at the end was the truth, and she knows now it's the very, very least she can do.

_I promise. _Aerith has never meant anything more than she means this. _I'll make it up to you. I'll make it right._

By the time she opens her eyes again, the pyreflies have flocked up from the river and are twisting with gun-smoke in the unreachable sky of the cavern. Ambiguous and hazy, they weave in the grey: lanterns that light the weary past the fog that hides the dawn.

* * *

><p>The Library of Cid of the Lufaine is crowded with more books than Yuna's ever seen. The gold-leafed shelves are stuffed with them, and as she runs a sore finger over their spines, she wonders how long she'd have to live to read them all.<p>

_A thousand years, probably._ A smile tugs at her lips. _Maybe even longer._

Using her tongue, Yuna traps a half formed sigh against the top of her mouth. Her father would have loved this place, she thinks. He would have sat in here for days at a time, mulling over lore and spellcraft and story.

But then, she also thinks he would have gotten along well with Lord Minwu. _And –_a twinge of guilt and grief washes over her – _he probably would have seen the truth sooner. _

Bowing her head, Yuna bites her lip. She still doesn't understand what she saw in the Mirror of Atropos. What a future like that could possibly mean; why Lady Aerith and Lord Minwu kept it from them. But then again_ – _she lets her hand drop from the bookshelf – she supposes now is the time for answers. She just hopes she knows enough to ask the right questions.

_That's really the secret_, she thinks, shivering even though the robes of the White Order are heavy homespun wool. Every right answer begins with a good question.

"Hey darlin'" Yuna's so preoccupied, she almost jumps when Laguna comes up behind her, presses a hand to her low back. "That was some light show back there."

Turning to face him, Yuna smiles, pulls back the White Mage's hood. "The Sending?" she asks. "I didn't really think Lord Minwu needed it, but I wanted to be sure…I just…" she trails off, swallows. "I couldn't stand the idea of his soul getting stuck here, with Cid of the Lufaine. It was just too awful."

"It was the right decision, kiddo," he reassures. "You did a good, good thing." Patting her again gently, Laguna lets his hand and his voice drop. "You ready for this?"

Yuna offers a slow shrug. "I don't know," she answers truthfully. "I never dreamed I'd see what I saw in the Mirror."

"Yeah." Analytically, Laguna's eyes dart over to the corner of the Library where Light and Kain are speaking privately, away from Vaan and Tifa. She's brushing crusted salt off his shoulders: a small, shy gesture that nearly breaks Yuna's heart. "She seems better, though," he observes. "Humany-looking and everything. Plus the boob-eating tattoo's gone. That's a good thing, right?"

"Yes, but still, I – " Agitated, Yuna takes a deep, deep breath. The horror in the mirror still lingers in her mind, a nightmare clinging to day. "Laguna, I don't what happened…I don't know what she decided. What happened to her, it was _terrible._" She lowers her gaze for a second before looking up again. "I didn't want to frighten anyone, and then Lord Minwu was killed, but it seems like her whole world dies – "

"That's because it does." Aerith's voice pulls every eye in the Library towards the doorframe. Still soaked right through, the hair that falls around her shoulders is loose and wild, like brambles in a storm. "But I think you know that already, don't you, Lightning?"

"Of course she does, flower girl." Sitting cross-legged on Minwu's desk, Nero scratches at a bandage until it tears. His eyes seem to slither in their sockets as he rolls them, and Yuna decides she doesn't like the way it looks at all. "Wasn't that the trade?"

Aerith glares, and her eyes behind salt-tipped lashes are frost in spring. "Be quiet, Nero."

Ignoring her, he goes on, and he sounds mean, and bored. His rusty wing groans as he gestures to Lightning. "This one's dealt into Her Providence's service, the rest go home, you try and kill Shinryu in the bargain, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." He twitches. "Don't tell me you're backing out _now_? Etro will be quite put out. And we're very late already. We really should be going."

"_What?_" Vaan steals the word out of Yuna's mouth.

"Aerith." It's Tifa now, her beautiful face pale and bloodless. "…A trade? Wait. I don't understand…For what? What do you mean?"

"Oh, look." Shaking his head, Nero's moldy bandages stretch over a smile. "A surprise. I love surprises." He claps his hands together in mocking applause, and Yuna can't tell if the awful, chattering noise she's hearing is supposed to be laughter. "So you didn't tell them after all? That wasn't a very saintly thing to do, now was it, little martyr? Such a waste, all those pink ribbons."

"Speak plainly, creature." Leaning in the shadow, Kain's voice is dangerously low.

Nero almost sighs. "Has anyone ever told you what a terrible cliché you are?" The itch on his face seems to have spread to the back of his head, and the sound of iron scratching skin fills the room. "But I'll let Minwu's widow answer you. Or Her Providence's pet. Whoever." He pauses, crosses his legs, gives the impression he's just going to sit back and watch. "Perhaps we _can _wait a bit longer. There may be some sport in this after all."

Yuna feels the air go out of the Library. And she watches as gazes cross and avoid each other, angry or frightened; accusatory or defiant or ashamed.

_There are faultlines everywhere_, she thinks, pulling the cloak flush around her. Separating pasts and futures and lovers and friends. It'll take just a little shift in pressure to change everything now. Maybe just the weight of a few little words.

"Light." Yuna speaks without meaning to, and it comes out more firmly than she intends. "Tell them."

"It's true." Lightning holds on to Yuna's eyes when she speaks "That goddess needs me for something. And I need to get Her out of my way before I can do what I need to." Pausing, she turns an iced glare on Aerith. "But I don't know anything about any kind of _trade_."

Pulling her small frame as straight as it can go, Aerith looks right back. "I know." Walking forward to sit in Minwu's empty chair, Yuna thinks she looks like a forest ghost, all paleness and thinness and green and brown and white. "I'm sorry. I – Let me explain."

It hasn't been often in her life that Yuna's said "no" to a story. Sitting at her father's feet, or at Sir Auron's, she used to love them when she was a child. All kinds. Tales of adventure and betrayal and love. Redemptions. Quests. Magic. She even liked the ones that didn't have happy endings, because the way that her father told them, even the sad ones had lessons.

She used to clap sometimes. Because she used to think the stories were like real life. Only as Aerith speaks, finally tells them the whole truth, Yuna's forced to realize – like she has so many times before – that life doesn't have a lot do with stories. It doesn't all just make sense in the end.

Yuna bites her lip, sad all over again. And silently, as if sensing it, Laguna takes her elbow in his hand, and they listen together, and it's a little bit better, at least.

"You all know," she starts, "that Minwu was summoned here by Cid of the Lufaine. And that he's been here for a very long time." Pausing, she squeezes water from her hair before folding wrinkled fingers in her lap. "What you don't know is the reason. Minwu's the oldest Named Mage in all our worlds, and he's the only one Cid of the Lufaine could find with enough power to do what he wanted."

"Which was…?" Tifa prompts into the wet-seeming silence.

Aerith looks up from her hands. "To test and build the manikins," she answers simply. "To bind a soul to the Warrior of Light."

The entire room breathes in as one, and Yuna hears words rush in and over each other. Things like "_what?"_, "_how?_", "_Impossible_," race through the air, and while Yuna feels shock pull through her, for some reason it fades almost right away. Coldly, she realizes it makes sense. And that it explains everything about him that was odd and inhuman, as well as everything about him that was warm and kind and striving. _Unique._ Like a puppet, she thinks, that became a real boy.

It's an odd thought, but it makes her feel better, to think it.

"Minwu hated it." Aerith's voice seems weighed down. "He tried so hard to get away. It was the reason for the Curse wounds. If it weren't for me, and the fact that Cid could just bring him back if he did it that way, I think he would have…I…." Clenching her small hand to a fist, Aerith abandons what Yuna can sense she was going to say and just goes on. "Anyway. He discovered as they were working that Cid of the Lufaine'd been tricked. That the only reason Shinryu wanted to build Dissidia in the first place was to have a place to keep eating. A permanent power source, almost, where he could feed on the strongest souls on our worlds and get powerful enough to storm the Door of Souls."

"_He is like Sin." _Bahamut's last words play in Yuna's mind like notes of music. _"Summoner Eternal…" _She blinks, and and when she opens her eyes, things make more sense than before. "He'd be invincible then, wouldn't he?" she says quietly. "Strong enough to break the rules of the Rift and go backwards…into all our worlds…"

Aerith nods. "Minwu didn't tell Cid because he'd have panicked, blown away every soul in Dissidia or something worse. So he spent years trying to figure out another way to stop it. _Years. _He tried so hard." She rubs her hand over her chest, like she's trying to push something down or away, and Yuna notices that the salt crystals that flake off her collar have a soft incandescence, pale and delicate as frost. "It all seemed so hopeless. But then when Cosmos summoned Lightning, and you died at the Empyreal Paradox, it all started coming together. Cid made a deal that Minwu thought was crazy at first, but then the more we thought about it…" She swallows. "The more we thought about it the more it seemed like the only way. Lightning's world is doomed – it was clear to all of us when she was first summoned – so we convinced ourselves the bargain was the only way. Lighting would stay with Etro, who wanted her; the rest of you could go home where you're needed, and…"

_A trade. _Yuna feels ill or dizzy. From pawns in Dissidia to pieces of gil. Something to be spent. "And?"

"I know it was horrible," Aerith keeps speaking. "But we couldn't think of any alternatives. It was Ellone, really, who changed our minds. She told us what Cosmos was planning. To send you home. To end the wars for good. We knew if that happened, it would make Shinryu furious, that he'd go to the Door before he was ready…" She swallows, but when she speaks again, her voice is bright and clear. "It was a chance we didn't think we'd get – a chance to force a direct confrontation with another Lord of the Rift. With Etro Herself, and with Lightning too, once Etro gave her all Her power…" Inhaling, she pushes a damp lock of hair behind her ear. "We had to take it. It was the only way we could think of to stop him."

"So let me get this straight." Vaan is crouching by a library shelf, flipping and catching a scalpel sharp knife in perfect 4/4 time. "You lied to keep us from trying to help Light?" His voice rises. "You just expected us to let his happen to her? To let her whole world die and then just _leave _her to fight that thing herself?" He shakes his head, and sticky strands of sandy hair stick to his brow. "Lady, you're nuts."

"But don't you see, Vaan," Aerith replies, pulling at the hem of her shift. "You're _right_. You wouldn't have left her. You wouldn't have come one step with me. You'd have stayed and fought for something different and we'd never have made it this far. And Shinryu is coming." Looking up, she pins everyone in the room with burning, alien eyes. "Do you understand? It was wrong what we did, but it was one world for twelve others." Her gaze goes to Tifa. "One life for everyone else's." Yuna almost thinks she hears a quaver in her voice. "A sacrifice. We wanted to spare you from it."

"Okay." Laguna has his arms folded now and his bright face has gone dark. He drums his fingers against the leather of his jacket and the sound just bounces around. "Okay. Leaving aside for a second that what you're telling us is that we're _more_ fucked now than we were before. Particularly our dear Light here – sorry kiddo – "

"You serious, Loire?" Lightning smirks. "Sounds about right."

"Thank you." He smiles at her. "But by that logic, I don't see why the sudden change of heart. Evil dragon lord's still coming to eat us. Facts on the ground haven't changed." His expression tightens. "What else aren't you telling us?"

"And what about the crystals?" Tifa asks in a soft, small voice. "When I gave mine away…you seemed so angry…"

"It all went wrong." Aerith blinks, rubs her temple, and when she opens her eyes again the wildness has gone out of them and they go back to being sad and filled with mourning. Turning to Tifa, she continues. "Look, you need Cosmos' crystals to go back across the Door of Souls. The Gate's mediated by Chaos, and only fragments of harmony will let you go back the other way. The problem with the plan was that the Lufenian, that Cid – "

"Problem?" Kain's voice is just as low and cold as before. "Fair choice of words, Lady."

Aerith absorbs the contempt without flinching. "Cid dropped Tifa and Vaan in the Ruins, right in Lindzei's nest." She sighs, shakes her head. "You fell. You opened the Gates of Song. You woke up Cid Raines. And Lindzei's so terrified of Lightning – of what will happen after she returns to her world – She panicked. Even Cosmos sensed it. That's why she sent for Ellone, to try and guide you back through the Rift." As she speaks, the worn strap of her shift just slides off a narrow shoulder. "With Lindzei and Raines chasing you from one side and Shinryu from the other…it was just too much. Everything just fell apart."

Beside her, Yuna can feel Laguna go tense. The smile that's always on his face stays there, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "What the what now? Guidance?" He only reacts to what Aerith said about Ellone. "Because all those dreams didn't feel so much like guidance to me."

"I'm sorry Laguna, she wouldn't tell us." There's something in Aerith's voice that makes Yuna certain she's telling the truth. "She told Minwu she was searching for her family, that she had to make a choice, that Cosmos didn't quite understand the danger. She didn't say anything else." She hesitates, and Yuna sees a second of consideration flit over her face before she goes on. "But I can tell you one thing. I think you deserve to hear it."

The creak of leather as Laguna unfolds his arms seems too loud. "Aw, that's nice of you."

Aerith laughs limply, shivers as a cold wind from the river barges through the Library doors. "Your son…it's Squall, Laguna. Minwu didn't know – I only really just put it together myself, and I – "

All the color drains from Laguna's face. "Squall?" he says. "Squall _Leonhart?_"

Nodding, Aerith answers steadily. "Yes."

This time it's Yuna's turn to hold an elbow. She holds it as tight as she can and doesn't let go. When he recovers, he just shakes his head. Two times. Sharply. "Okay. Great. Good. Good to know." Breathing out, he doesn't lift his gaze from Aerith. "You about done now? Any more life-shattering revelations for us, 'cause I like to get all those out of the way at once." A twitch of real amusement slides over his face. "Unless you want to tell me this all a dream. I usually hate movies that end that way, but I'll make an exception, just this once."

"No, Laguna." Aerith's voice sounds so sad and lost, Yuna can't find it in her to be angry. "That's it. That's the truth."

"…But Aerith." Tifa only speaks again after the silence that fills the room stretches all the way to breaking, when the adder's whisper of Nero's darkness is so thick, Yuna feels it on her skin. "Then…what do we do now?" She looks down for a moment, bites her lip. "We can't let Light just…I mean we _won't _let her do this alone. There's no way we can just leave her – "

"It's not your decision, Lockhart." There's no room for argument in Lightning's voice. "I already made my choice. I've _got_ to get back there. There's something I've got to do, and if I've got to tear that damn dragon apart with my bare hands to do it, then that's the end of it."

"Excellent." Piping up for the first time since Aerith started speaking, Nero slides off the desk. "Then I guess we'd best be off. Let's – "

"No." Aerith doesn't even look at him to answer. "We are not moving, Nero."

"Really now?" Yuna notices the deep crimson in his eyes begin to swirl, like blood in the water. His magic begins to rise and curl around him, and Yuna feels pitch dark seeps into cells, pulling her, pulling her somewhere…

Aerith wastes no time. With an exacting snap of her wrist, coils of Lifestream lash across Nero's ruined face. He counters quickly with the liquid smoke of his own magic– equal and opposite to hers – and while it all cancels out, the air nevertheless tingles with something so poisonous and wrong it slithers down Yuna's spine.

Cat-eyes wide with shock, Nero notices it too and he barely manages to conceal a shudder. "Now, now, now," he hisses. "We wouldn't want to start any of that."

"_You_ wouldn't," Aerith snarls back. Standing down, she closes her eyes, and without their unreal brightness, Yuna can't help but notice how nearly translucent her skin looks. It's as if the only thing keeping her together right now is magic and sheer force of will. Turning back towards Light, her voice softens and she goes on. "It's not that easy now, Lightning," she says. "You're vulnerable. Etro's weak. Shinryu is coming, and now so is Lindzei…you won't have enough power to survive it."

Lighting pulls in a breath. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Minwu was right. We misjudged…" Aerith's voice cracks. "We were trying to keep everyone but you out of it, but it won't work. We thought _– we – _"

"_We all made mistakes, Aerith_." It's a spectral voice that interrupts her, and it seems to come from everywhere at once. Yuna's only heard it a few times before, and then it was coming out of the stolen mouth of the Warrior of Light. _But still – "And we have paid dearly for them now, I think."_

Grabbing more tightly onto Laguna's arm that she needs to, Yuna hates the conclusion she comes to, but she knows she can't be wrong.

"Cid?" she whispers.

Lightning's as certain as Yuna was hesitant. "The fuck are you doing here?" she snarls, pulling Enkindler from its sheathe. "Didn't I already kill you once?"

Stepping forward, Yuna squints, trying to make sense of the distortion that's rippling the air. And even though it's not quite solid, it doesn't take her long to realize she's looking at another version of the Warrior of Light. Ghostly, it hovers in the yellow light of the Library wearing the same robes she is, and if she didn't know better, she would think his face looked almost sad.

_How many of these did he make?_ Yuna's terrified and sick at the same time. _How many lives did he just throw away…_

"_Yes, Lightning Farron." _Cid bows low, all the way from the hip. _"In a way, you did."_

* * *

><p>Most times, when she's under pressure, Tifa Lockhart doesn't have a lot of time to react.<p>

A martial artist fights on instinct. She trusts her body to sense danger before her conscious mind. It works better that way. If the mind gets in the way, you hesitate, you get slow. And usually if you're slow, you either get hit in places you can't afford to get hit in, or you die, or your friends die.

This time isn't different. Tifa barely even sees the blurry-edged form standing in front of her before she sets and whirls; does her level best to roundhouse it square in the face.

It doesn't work. _Damn it._

Her foot sails straight through. _Damn it, damn it, damn it. Go away._

"How _dare_ you?" The words are out of Tifa's mouth before momentum carries her the rest of the way back around. She edges protectively in front of Aerith, whose eyes have gone wide with shock. "_How_ – What are you doing here, you monster? Leave us alone."

"_I remind you this is my laboratory, Tifa Lockhart. It is you who do not have the right, and who are here at my indulgence, and at my will." _The astral form in front of her holds up a hand in something that looks like a symbol of truce. "_But for now, that is not the point." _

"Then what is?" Kain growls. Standing in a shadowed corner of the Library, only his lips are visible, and they curl with actual hate. "You mock the form of my friend."

"_I came to warn you, Kain Highwind," _he says. "_I came to warn you all."_

Tifa watches Vaan catch his dagger by the hilt, and the way he sidles up beside her makes her feel better, and proud. "Dunno about that, asshole," he growls. "Don't warnings usually happen _before_ you kill people?"

"_I would not speak so hastily, boy." _Glow-in-the-dark eyes narrow to slits, and are the brightest thing in a see through face. _"If not for me, you would be dead on the Last Floor as we speak. Or clinging to the Rift as less than half a spirit."_ He lets his hand drop._ "And I add that Minwu was a companion of mine for more than a century. No-one mourns his loss more than I."_

"I do." Aerith's voice is ravaged, and Tifa doesn't know how to react; what to do. Aerith's lied to her with ever breath, but she's lost everything too. The way she always seems to lose the things she loves the most. But before she can send a comforting look back at her, Tifa sees Lifestream crawl down her arms like vines and realizes she probably doesn't need to. "What do you want Cid?"

"_A truce, Aerith Gainsborough. A moment of your time." _He takes a cautious step towards her, and the way he moves makes Tifa think that even now, he still believes he's the victim._ "To offer some measure of repentance for my misstep." _

Standing in a halo of Yuna's Shell and Protect, Laguna's got an expression on his face that Tifa's never seen before. Pale. Unsmiling. The President of Esthar. "You plan on giving us our friend back?" he asks, voice low but deep and strong. "You plan on letting my son out of that mousetrap of yours?"

"_If my fool of a wife has her way, then perhaps yes, Laguna Loire." _Cid doesn't turn to face him. "_Though I make no promises. Shinryu's wrath defies mortal bounds. It may be that there may be no worlds for your son to return to, after the Dragon eats his fill." _Pausing, it looks for a second like he's drawing in a tired breath. "_And make no mistake. He will come as surely as Lindzei does, to claim what he deems his."_

"So you came here to rub it in our faces?" Lightning's got her fists balled so tight, tendons strain in her forearms. "Because I will tell you right now, I've got exactly zero time for this."

"_For all you power, Lightning, you truly do not listen, do you?" _Colorless eyes swing to Nero, arrogant and bored._ "But I suppose Etro has never been so killed at choosing her pawns. Nevertheless."_ He stops, looks at all of them, one at a time. _"I come to tell you that Pulse and Lindzei's hounds have found your scent. They follow the river as we speak. I intercepted you here to hide you. Enchanted it as much as I can, but the spells will not hold for long."_

"Why are you telling us this, Cid?" Almost unconsciously, Tifa backs up, wraps her arms over Aerith's shoulder. "Why…why are you helping us?"

"_I am not helping __**you**__,"_ Cid answers. His face is so insubstantial, it looks as soft and harmless as candle-smoke. "_Had I my way, you would have been ghosts of the Rift by now, and you would be better for it by far. I am keeping a promise to Cosmos. She wished to send her warriors – all her warriors – home." _Pausing he pulls his insubstantial cloak more closely around his neck. "_And so, I will do what I can."_

"Then please – " It's Yuna who speaks. Unfailingly polite, her voice is as soft and stubborn as spring. " – will you free us?"

_What? _Tifa can almost hear her heart pound in her chest, and even though she's holding Aerith's shoulders, she's looking over at Vaan.

He shrugs, clutches his dagger, waits for the answer along with everyone else.

It's Yuna's lead now. And as she speaks, Tifa looks at the way everyone's holding their breath, and realizes that people who ignore an angry shout usually strain to hear a whisper.

Cid answers slowly, with a single word. _"Pardon?_"

"I asked you if you'll free us, Cid." Yuna's calm when she speaks, but her eyes flash with the cold blue and green of moonlight on the sea. "Will you give us back our magic – give us back everything we could do in Dissidia – so we can fight?"

Turning away from Aerith, Cid looks at her like she's some kind of specimen in a bowl. _"Do you know what you are saying, Yuna of Spira?" _he asks. Phantom strands of silver hair sway over his face, and Tifa hates how everything he does seems to make her wish the real Warrior were here. "_Lindzei, Pulse and Shinryu are gods beyond your imagination. Your Sin is to them as a match is to a flood." _A soft tapping begins, pitiless against Tifa's ears._ "Did your time in the mirror addle your brain, girl?" _

"No," Yuna answers smoothly, meeting Lightning's eyes across the room. In the White Mage's robes, she looks bright and inspiring, and Tifa feels strong around her, and good. "No. I think it made things a little clearer, actually." Straightening, she walks past him, gathers Aerith's hands in her. "I know you said only another Lord of the Rift can stop him – Shinryu, I mean – but we have to try."

"Yuna." Aerith looks shocked. "Are you sure? Cid's not wrong, Minwu was studying it for so long. It _tortured _him, what we had to do with Lightning, her world. But there wasn't any choice. We had – "

"What we have to do is fight." The way Yuna says it makes it sound like it's not an interruption at all. "You don't have to do it yourself, Lady Aerith. I thought that too, once. That it was all my burden to bear." Breathing deep, Yuna looks up and around at the room. "But it wasn't. Sacrifice isn't always the only way." She pauses, breathes, lets her gaze rest on Lightning. "I don't even think it even works, half the time. The more I think about it, the more it just seems like giving up, don't you think?"

"Yuna – "

Yuna squeezes her hand tighter. "You don't want to give up, do you?"

It's strange, but sometimes, Tifa thinks that she can actually feel the silence. That when it enters a room at the right time, it's a little like magic itself. Something that _does_ things: gives people the space they need to make the choices they need.

"No," Aerith answers finally, nodding, the wisps of her drying hair sweeping softly over her face. "No, I don't."

"_Folly." _The spectral expression on Cid's face is somewhere between resigned and confused. "_But very well_. _You may die as you see fit. I will do what you ask of me; lift the remainder of the veil." _Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. _ "But be warned: dark things ford the river as we speak, and they will make quick work of what I have done to shield you. Your time grows short." _

"Then cease wasting it," Kain doesn't move as he speaks.

"_Clever, Sir Knight." _Something like irritation flickers in Cid's eyes. _ "And I shall take my leave presently. Though pray, please explain something to me."_

"What?" It's Vaan who cuts in, all coiled up with anger.

"_Tell me_," he begins, and Tifa thinks there's something really questioning in his voice,_ "by comparison, does Dissidia truly seem so terrible? None of this would now be in play if you – if Cosmos – had simply let the matter lie. I would not have sent you here, and Lindzei would still sleep. And had Minwu only –" _

"Had he _what?_"

_Aerith. _As she speaks, Tifa feels something spark under her skin.

"_Had he listened,"_ Cid says mildly. "_If he understood that the only steady state is power. Shinryu does conceive resistance_."

"Oh, I see." It's as if the words shatter whatever restraint was holding Aerith in check. And as naked Lifestream crackles over her, both Tifa and Yuna are forced to let go: to just stand back and watch. "If he just stayed your slave, you mean?" The magic on her skin trembles, deep and unforgiving. "If he were a coward – " It sails from her fingers and presses deep into the long, phantom throat of Cid of the Lufaine " – like you?"

Cid uses gossamer hands to clutch at an insubstantial windpipe threaded over with green. There's terror rising in his eyes. He's not used to pain anymore, Tifa can tell, and his expression is white with surprise. "_How?" _

Aerith steps forward, deliberate, and Tifa can't really figure out what she sees. When they first met, Aerith was such a strange, dreamy girl. Someone who went crazy at Wall Market, someone everyone wanted to protect. And other than the fact she was afraid of outside, nobody would think there was anything really off about her – anything abnormal or scary at all. But looking at her now, Lifestream slipping through her fingers like water, Tifa sees what Sephiroth must have seen when he killed her; what Hojo saw, when he tried to take her away.

_Power._ And it's terrifying.

"Because I can, Cid." The old airy playfulness is in her voice, but it's edged with something else. "I can do a lot of things you don't know. I could change you real again – " the phantom flutters, half solid " – I could hurt you now, the way you hurt us. The way you hurt your wife." She pauses, and the Lifestream heels to her command. "The way you hurt your poor, poor son, who you turned into a monster." Somehow, the magic seems ruthless, hungry as weather. "He loved you, you know that? Chaos. He would have followed you anywhere. And you abused him. You made him insane and vicious and sad."

"_I did this __**for**__ them." _It's not possible that Cid of the Lufaine is choking, but that's what it sounds like. Tifa has to swallow the wave of pity rising in her chest. _"It…I never intended for it to be this way. I had wanted…I…It was better than being separated. They would have died without me. It was __**bette**__r – "_

Maybe it's the fact that Cid's trying to justify himself and it all sounds so hollow. Or maybe it's because there's something in the way he's slapping his hands at the magic that seems weak and tired and childish. Or maybe it's because despite everything – despite the fact Aerith's lost the one person she ever loved that loved her all the way back – she's not cruel. But whatever it is, whatever the reason, Aerith just stops. She turns of the magic like it's water, and Cid's back to being a ghost.

Reaching out to Yuna, Tifa's scared he won't help them anymore. She's scared they've crossed a line, and now they don't have any hope at all. But Yuna just takes her hand and smiles, lets her know without speaking that they'll find a way to do it without him, if they have to.

Deadly quiet, Cid rises. And a she and Aerith look long and hard at each other, it's like nothing in the whole Rift can move.

"Then go back," she says finally. "Lift your veil and leave us alone and do your best to hide. Try and keep your promise to your wife if you can."

"_Very well, Aerith Gainsborough. Consider that, and your shelter here, a parting gift." _Tifa can't read the expression on Cid of the Lufaine's face. But then she guesses it doesn't matter all that much, because it's almost gone anyway. "_Do know, I cared for Minwu too. Though we will not meet again, I hope you know that this is true."_

Aerith holds her head steady. "Goodbye, Cid" she says.

"_Goodbye._"

After he disappears, Tifa notices it takes a long time for anyone to say anything. The only thing that exists is the soft, whispering sounds as people move back and forth across the Library. Kain and Light coming to grasp Laguna on either shoulder. Yuna gathering Aerith to a long, wordless hug. Tifa herself, walking without even really noticing it, to come and stand beside Vaan.

Almost automatically he reaches out to pat her back. And even though she doesn't quite think it's alright between them yet, she thinks maybe it'll get there soon enough. He even mutters something about Aerith being even more deeply weird than he thought, and Tifa just laughs in reply.

She's almost scared to think that it all seems…almost okay.

If she wanted to, she could probably say it's just the feeling of her strength coming back to her – _a drink of water, after being parched_ – but she doesn't think that's it at all

The only really out of place sound is the tin scratch of an iron wing over a moldy bandage. A slow, mocking clap from the dark black figure who's still leaning against Minwu's desk,

"Not bad, flower girl." Looking mildly amused, Nero's still leaning against Minwu's desk. His eyes glow a vicious crimson though, and they latch on Aerith, tight. "And here I thought all you knew how to do was die."

Tifa wonders if anyone else notices that Aerith almost smiles.

* * *

><p>For the time being, Laguna Loire thinks it'll be more or less okay if he just keeps on looking at this tiny revolver.<p>

He's perfectly aware that Aerith just dropped a space-station sized bomb on his already bruised head. And that Lightning's kind of just staring at him while she's pretending to clean and reassemble Enkindler. And – _of course_ – that they're more or less fucked in every hole_. _But for some reason, he honestly can't imagine a better thing to do with his time than just stare at the little thing.

_It's cute. _Flipping the cylinder open, he looks at it, blows the chamber clean, then flips it shut again. _Just about as cute as a baby revolver could be._

"Laguna." Sitting with her weapon across her knees on the stone in front of him, Lightning's got her eyes narrowed at him, and Laguna thinks she looks like an angry librarian with a gun.

He decides not to answer. Turning his attention back to the sidearm, he cocks his head. _It really is a pretty little piece of work_. Silver safety. Nice softness to the grip. Sexy little swing-out chamber. He doesn't quite remember where he got it, but he feels like maybe he should have gotten another one. They're rare. _And expensive. And – _

"_Laguna._" Lightning's leaning over Enkindler now and he can feel a slim, sharp fingers poke his forehead. "Hey. You in there or not?"

Lifting his head, Laguna manages something he hopes looks like a smile. "Could be," he says. "Who knows? Apparently there's still a bunch of me missing." Tossing his hair out of his face, he works a little harder on that smile. "Maybe we should file a missing person's report."

Shaking her head, Lightning lets out a short laugh through her nose. "Okay, Loire. Let me see, here." She counts the BS out on her fingers. "We've got an insane Inter-dimensional dragon out to turn all our worlds into lunchmeat, your kid's still trapped in Dissidia, we're off on a second suicide mission in six months and _still_ with the corny jokes?" She'd sound harsh if she didn't have that almost-soft almost-smile on her face. "You're some piece of work."

"I try." The smile's still stiff so he goes for a wink. Winks are good. "I got an idea, though. How 'bout you keep up the do-what-I-gotta-do GI Jane thing, and I'll do the humor. We survive, we can be an act or something. Famous the whole Rift through."

"Laguna – "

"We can take the other guys, too." Laguna rushes in with more words, as if they'll do something that works. "Ms. Lockhart can supply the adult beverages; Vaan'll deal the tickets. Kain can bounce. He's got that silent, growling thing down – "

"Like Squall?" Lightning seems to have waited for such a perfect time to lay that blitz on him, he's got to give her credit. _She's a good soldier, after all_. _One of the best._

Laguna blinks. "Guess so," he concedes, eyes flitting back down to his gun. "Less of a smartass though."

"Maybe," Lightning replies and she's treading lightly now, the way she does when she's tracking something down. "Has that lion fetish going, but he's a real good kid, Laguna. Fought hard. And still fighting." She stops and her voice goes a bit softer. "You should be proud of him."

"Him?" Laguna pulls the safety back experimentally, easing it back and forth, feeling the grit on the bolt like arthritis in a joint. "Sure am proud of him, actually. Couldn't be prouder." There's cotton candy in his throat, he's sure of it. "_He _would not be the issue, Light."

Through the fringe of downcast lashes, Laguna watches some kind of expression slide across Lightning's face. Her skin's a kind of pale blue in the frothy light of the hall right outside Cid's Library, but still, she looks healthy, and her face is relaxed. Calm. _Young. _He's got to shake his head at how unlined her skin is, how unused her eyes are.

_Fuck_. He blinks, looks right at her. He's always forgetting how young she is, to have sucked up so much violence. _How much longer she's got to go, before she gets to stop._

What rips his guts out is that it's so damn normal. Every world, every place, every war. Takes what was young once and makes it old. It's the first intentional kill that takes you over the line. Everything else just makes you forget there ever was one. Maybe you end up a hero, but you forget what the grass smells like. Or your fingers when they don't reek of carbon.

Happened to him. Happened to Light. Happened to Squall, and Laguna realizes he wasn't even there – _fuck – _he didn't even _try – _and he knew the guy reminded him of _someone – _

Laguna whistles out a soundless breath and it stings. He feels like it would've been good to have taken the kid out for a beer or something. Would've been the least he could do.

"Yeah he is." When Lightning finally speaks, she interrupts his thoughts like she can hear them. "Your issue, I mean." Rising, she flips Enkindler into its holster in one seamless move and looks down at him. "We've all got one. At least."

Craning his neck up, he smiles at her. "That we do, my friend," he says. "Personally, I like to make sure I've got a few spare mistakes on me, in case I run out." Locking the safety back in place, he raises a brow at her. "But that's just me. You should try and keep yours to a manageable number."

Lightning puts her hand on her hip, smirks. "I've never done _anything_ half-assed, Loire."

Despite himself, Laguna lets out barking laugh. "Really? Nothing but full ass for you, right Light?" He flips the revolver in his hand, catches it by the muzzle. "But yeah, kiddo, I know. It's a good thing." He almost stops himself from saying it, not sure if it'll land him a nice booted kick in the balls or something worse, but hey, what the hell._ Nothing ventured…_And besides. He missed his chance with one of them already. "And for what it's worth," he adds, catching her eye, "I'm proud of you too."

For a second, Laguna's not sure if something's gone terribly wrong, or if Light actually has some sort of deadly allergy to normal human contact, but it seems for a second that her expression relaxes, and he's seeing that other chick he keeps catching glimpses of. The one who had a thing for roses, and more to do with her time than turning people's brains into splatter. Even if she is really damn good at it.

She blinks, taken aback. And Laguna thinks he should try laying on the cheese a bit thicker next time she asks him to race putting their weapons together.

He's counted all the way down from fifteen by the time Lightning finally makes that characteristic sounds-like-she's-unimpressed noise. "Don't be such a sap, Loire."

Grinning, he bows his head. "Can't help it, darlin'. Stops my leg from cramping up."

Yuna's musical giggle follows the lazy spill of light from the Library. Back in her ratty kimono, her shadow's the shape of a willow switch. "I just thought that was just dehydration, Laguna."

"Really?" Back to normal, Lightning's smile is nice and sharp. "I thought it was an excuse for a sympathy feel."

"Light." Yuna puts her hand on the small of Light's back. "Go a little easy on him."

"It's okay, darlin'." Light's got her spikes, but Laguna wouldn't have her any other way, frankly. "I'm not that delicate. Little tenderized, but hey. It's all good."

"I know." Yuna smiles, squeezes Lightning's waist before letting go. "I was just…defending your honor. But Light – " she stops, fishes a stack of something out of her obi. " – would you mind giving these to Sir Kain when you see him? Aerith says Sir Minwu kept them for him, but he just left them when he left to check the perimeter..."

Looking startled for the second time, Lightning just nods, takes a longish look, folds whatever it is into the pack on her shoulder. "Sure," she says. "I was supposed to go with him anyway."

"Well now I feel guilty," Laguna pipes in. Wearily, his gaze creeps over the stone corridor, past the wriggly bits of crystal ore to where the water's still growling, thinks they all oughtta get whatever life they can take out of this place. "Hate to interrupt your long walk on the…_ah_…evil doom river…"

Starting away, Lightning sends him a loose salute, the first she's ever given him. "Whatever, Loire," she says. "He doesn't need babysitting. Besides – " she smiles " – I can't have our CO falling apart, can I?"

"ExO," he corrects.

"No." She tosses him back a quick, warm look, and it's pretty. Real pretty. "Don't think so."

Touched, all Laguna can do is offer a quick laugh in reply. And hold up his revolver. And salute right back.

All in all, it doesn't take Lightning all that long to fade off into the darkness. She's probably as quick on her feet as anyone he's ever met, but it's still surprising that it only takes her the second Laguna uses to rub the weariness out of his eyes to be out of sight completely. Just vanished.

He'd say "_like Lightning" _but that's too damn cheesy even for him. He bows his head. _Getting tired, Loire. Bit too tired and cliché these days._

Raine'd have laughed at him. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd just have been disappointed.

More or less the only thing that he notices other than that knot in his chest is Yuna coming up behind him to tease the knot out of his shoulder. She doesn't say anything for some time, so can just focus on the fingers. They're firm and light at the same time, and even though she's not casting, he feels something like white magic come out of them. Some healing that's small and good and not too full of itself.

"Hey," he says, just wanting to break up the quiet, though he doesn't know why. "Penny for your thoughts."

Yuna laughs. "That's all?"

"Maybe." Laguna shrugs. "Depends what's on your mind."

"My father," she starts softly, and her voice whispers like the distant river. "I only remember him a little. He left not long after my mother died. And then…he did too."

Rolling his neck into the pressure of her hands, Laguna doesn't prod. She's telling him a story, he figures, and for once he thinks he'll let it go off on its own. Let it find its way without him.

"I cried," she admits. "I never told anyone, but I was angry at him a little. I didn't want him to leave, and he did. He had to do something else, and even though it was the best thing for everyone, all I could see when I was a little girl was that it was more important than I was."

"I'm sorry darlin'" Laguna says but he doesn't know why. He's got his eyes closed, and the sound of the river's like a wakening storm, but she doesn't really sound sad. Then again, she never really does. Suddenly annoyed that no-one ever really takes the time to comfort her, he tries to pull away, but the insistence in her fingertip, her next words, keeps him right where he is.

"No." She's firm, and almost a bit angry sounding, he thinks. "This doesn't need sorries at all, Laguna."

Strangely enough, since that's all he can really come up with to say back to her he just settles on: "Okay, love. You were saying?"

The fingers move from his neck to a spot right under his shoulder blade that he forgot even existed, it's so numb from absorbing a punishing fuck-ton of recoil. "It's just…" She leans in closer, pushes all her weight (_which isn't much_) into the knot. "Just that it took me a long time to understand that my father wasn't _just _my father. Or Braska, the High Summoner. Spira's hero." He feels her breathe. "He was a person. Someone who only knew how to make the best decisions he could."

Feeling what she's getting at, Laguna still can't swallow the sick feeling he's got. "Can't say everyone's as forgiving as you." He rolls his shoulder back, feels the muscles bunch and unbunch; sees that look he saw in Squall's eyes, back in the dream. Lead cold; lead flat; pissed the hell off. "Somehow I've got a feeling that's not such a popular opinion for most folks."

Yuna's fingers still a little. "Everyone thinks that about me, don't they?" She asks the air of the chamber and not him. "I don't think Rikku'd say I'm that forgiving all the time; or even Lulu, it's just – " she stops, helps him edge off his jacket so she can get at the knots more easily " – it's the truth, Laguna. I think everyone realizes eventually that parents are people too. And that if you make mistakes, so can your mom and dad." She stops, and Laguna can almost see her furrowing her little eyebrows, even though she's behind him. Even though he's still nice and safe behind his closed eyes. "Everyone's childhood's terrible in some way. A _worst thing _happens to everyone, whether there's someone around to catch you or not. And a best thing," she adds because that's the way she is. "That too."

"I know, darlin'" She's trying to make him feel better, bless her heart, but there are some things that once they're done one way, they can't go back and get redone some way that's different. He's not crying over it, but the truth's the truth. _Not a man alive can unfire a shot. _"But that doesn't change that I was a pretty sucky Dad, there. I'd say I didn't know, but I should've. I should've…"

– _stayed, searched, gone back, never been president of anything, watched Ell grow up, bought them some ice-cream – _

"Maybe." He's happy she at least doesn't try to contradict him. "But being a bad father doesn't mean you're a bad person. And who knows?" She stops massaging now and just wraps her arms around the back of his neck. "It's not over. Maybe you'll get to see him again, make up for lost time." She squeezes tighter, and Laguna thinks she smells like something nice and homey, but he can't put his finger on it. "You've got to hold on sometimes, remember? Anything can happen."

Relaxing his head back against her obi, the best Laguna can think is _maybe._ But oddly enough, the thought's not so terrible-feeling. And he thinks – probably stupidly – he probably even believes her.

_Worse things to hang your hat on._

Reaching up to his collar, Laguna lets his hand rest on hers. Thumbs the ridge of her clammy fingers before stopping and squeezing tight to warm them up. "Well," he mutters and his voice feels like sandpaper in his throat. "If that's the way it is, then I want you in Esthar on the next train out of that Zanzi-whatever. Bring that boyfriend of yours." He feels bad how hard he's clutching her hand, but she doesn't seem to mind. "We'll all go dancing or something. Pull out all the stops. Slip the light fantastic straight through until the morning…"

"Trip…" Yuna corrects in the smallest voice. "It's 'trip' the light fantastic, I think…"

"…Suppose it is." Laguna lets out a soft laugh before patting her hand. "Sorry, babe. Not getting so much right these days."

Yuna doesn't answer. Coming to her knees behind him, she just settles her brow on his spine, her arms around his waist. And when he finally feels the silent tears soak through his tank top, he turns and just holds her. It's a little awkward – they're in a strange position – _but still_. He holds her as tight and as long as his sore arms will let him, until she stops.

* * *

><p>Now that she has most of her memory back, if someone were to ask Lightning Farron what she regrets most, she thinks she'd only have one answer. It probably covers a lot of ground – take in a bunch of her shiniest mistakes – but yeah. The thing itself's pretty simple, in the end.<p>

She regrets being so damn afraid.

As she makes her way through the synaptic corridors that lead away from Cid's Library, the thought rolls around in her mind the way the waves in the river crash into themselves. Fear did everything for her, she's pretty sure.

Kept her nailed to pointless training when she should've stayed up past her bedtime. Spent more time with Serah.

Kept her nice and cleanly angry; helped her cut ties with all those friends, all those well meaning adults who tried to help her out when she was a kid. Pushed her to leave them before they could leave her.

Kept pulling the trigger, every time she thought she was losing control. Burning recoil from all those shots she took in anger still ghosts through her right arm. She'd take them back if she could, but she can't. The best she can do is remember. Not make the same mistake again.

Following the stupidly obvious trail Kain's left along the river-bed, Lightning would laugh if the heavy wind off the water wouldn't keep abusing her face with salt and freezing spray. She can't help but think it's funny, because it took a trip through a haunted mirror, a screaming match with a glam-rock psychopath, a glimpse at a future swollen with death to get her to see that maybe, maybe she ought to have lived more – _no, better – _when she had the chance.

His trail takes a sharp turn beyond the ragged-rainbow edge of the Wayfarer's Circle. Running east from where they let go of brilliant, lying, dead Minwu who she'll never be able to thank enough, it leads into a narrow, argument shaped corridor a few paces back from the river. Blue-mana-lit and one-person-wide, when she creeps through it, she feels rotted moss come off on her, sting the cuts that lance her shoulders.

She winces, but it feels good. Normal-human good. Her flesh tears now, when it's supposed to. And her wounds are back to really bleeding. She's cold and clammy and feels like someone's thrown her in an industrial drier, but still. She thinks it's a small price to pay for nothing in her head screaming: _kill, kill, kill. _There's no wild power anymore, but there's no rage either; nothing hollowing her out; weaponizing her until she's just violence trapped in skin: a shadow in a shell.

What she doesn't think about is how she's supposed to kill any kind of god while she's this weak. Shinryu or Lindzei or any of the other things in that mirror. Her mind dances over it, understands only that whatever she's got to do – whatever's waiting for her past Etro and Caius and the end of the fucking world – she's got to do it this way. Completely human. And alone.

Lightning swallows, brushes a curtain of salt-poisoned vines out of her way. It's this last part that burns, this last part she forces herself to hold and look at and stare down. Because she thinks she's finally realizing that going it alone has nothing to do with what she wants, the kind of life she'd think she'd try and live now, if she could.

Shivering violently as another gritty lash of wind snaps over her back, Lightning sucks a salty lower lip into her mouth._ No_. If she had the choice, she'd take something free, she thinks. _And fast. Without rules. _As high and bright-burning as a summer night broken by stars.

Lightning stops short when the tunnel ends. Shouldering under a knob of brittle stone, it opens up into something she'd say looks more like a clearing than a cavern. Hived off from the corroding salt, things seem less dead here. Shy green blushes through arthritic layers of calcified moss, and the queer urban light of the mana doesn't seem so mutant set off against walls that are more silver than grey. And there's a shallow stream, too. Fleet and freshwater – judging by the smell – it chatters through the chamber, rolling a carpet of pebbles beneath it. It's gritty, the water, but's it's clear, and it's the most refreshing, most ordinary thing Lightning's seen in forever.

About shin-deep, Kain's kneeling in it. Sponging the salt off his shoulders, Laguna's tank top's damp on his chest. Against her will, Lightning's lips play with a smile.

He looks up at her. Silent and unreadable, he holds her eyes.

"You caught up quickly," is all he says.

Smirking, she shrugs her pack and her weapon off her shoulder. Sets them down somewhere there's no water to rust her blade, or wash the smell of roses off the letters he left behind. The entire time, she feels him stare at her, and something warm crawls steadily across her chest.

"You left a sloppy trail," she replies, turning back to him. "Losing your edge, Highwind?"

"Hardly." Thin lips show the barest twitch of a laugh. His eyes don't move though. "I'd say I matched difficulty to skill, but I've other things on my mind."

Lightning could spend her time thinking of an answer, but if she did, she'd probably also end up talking herself out of coming to kneel in front of him in the freezing water. Out of peeling the cloth out of his hand. The edges of it are warm with the heat of his body, but when she dips it in the stream, cold jackknifes up the nerves in her arm.

She stifles a shudder, a chattering of teeth. _Fucking freezing._ And as water fills her boots and numbs her toes, her only real thought is she doesn't know how he just sits there and bears it.

"Excuses," is what she manages eventually. "It's just the end of the world. Nothing we haven't dealt with before." Letting the current pull blood and salt off the fabric, eventually she hands it back to him, gestures with her chin to a broad swath of salt at his collar. "You missed a spot."

"No matter." Making a low sound of amusement, he scrubs the salt from where she's pointed. "I've missed a great many, over the years." Pausing, he smirks, rueful. "And the end of the world, while regrettable, is not what's on my mind."

"Really?" Teeth of cold water nip the bruises on her legs, chew through the fabric of her skirt, and are a shuddering contrast to the warmth that glides through her stomach. She tries not to think about it. Focuses instead on the way the strange light makes those cruel white scars of his seem almost lyrical, a soldier's life written in slender cuts of lightest blue. "What is?"

A softly snorted laugh precedes the wringing of the cloth, and he places it over his shoulder before reaching out to draw a cool, wet line across her cheek with the pad of his thumb. She feels the water drip from it, fall halfway to her jaw, and linger, questioning.

"Come now," he chastises, as softly as she's ever heard him speak. "I'd think it at least as obvious as the trail."

Lightning can't help but turn away slightly. Old habits die hard, she guesses.

"But tell me something."

"What?"

The hand at her cheek hardens, takes her by surprise. "Her Providences' service?" The question's not a question. And while his voice is as soft as it was a second ago, Lightning can sense a cold burn at its core. "And forgive me," he adds, nudging her gaze back to his, "but did I or did I not hear you simply agree?"

Trying to get away from his eyes, Lightning holds a blink for a second too long. She should've figured he'd ambush her on this. Exasperated, she sucks in a breath of chilled, stone-tasting air. She can't talk about this right now. It won't help. And her choice is already made.

The warmth slides out of her, and it's all just numbness and wet now. A feeling as worn-in and familiar as the handle of her gun. "Kain – "

"If you think I will watch you do this – " He speaks straight through her " – you are mad."

Pulling out of his grasp, Lightning feels the walls snap right back up. "Then I've got a solution for you, Highwind," she snarls, and the words cut as they leave her lips. "Don't look."

"Unacceptable." Undeterred as usual, Kain ignores her. "Try again."

"What do you want me to _do_, Kain?" Lightning's voice is level, and she keeps perfectly, perfectly still. A stone in a current that'll just get washed away if it moves. "I saw one chance in that mirror. One. For my world. For Serah. For everything." The words barely fit in her mouth, so she hurls them out as fast as she can. "And if it means me groveling at that Goddess' foot for a thousand years, then that's what it means."

"Only tricks reside in mirrors, Lightning." Kain answers from some visceral place in his stomach, and his voice is something that's been ground down with sandpaper. He's as close as she's ever seen him to being visibly upset, and she doesn't know how to deal with it. "I've no great wisdom at life, but this thing I know." Reaching forward, he gathers her hand in his. Wet, the touch is so much softer than she can even stand. She tries to pull away but he won't let her. "You told me to find another way, once."

"I did." Lightning replies, and the words crack. She doesn't want to say what she's going to say now. It goes against everything she's ever believed. But then again, she's been wrong before. "Just like you told me sometimes you've got to throw the battle –" she swallows " – in order to win the war."

The sudden bunching of muscles at Kain's jaw tells her the argument lands like a punch. Saying nothing, he breathes in a long breath and holds it, and Lightning knows she's won this round fair and square.

It usually feels good, getting one over on him. It doesn't this time. This time it feels like shit.

His hand drops out of hers, and her palm feels cold and wet and empty.

Kain shuts his eyes and keeps them shut for a long, long time. And Lightning watches a string of moss dance the current all the way down the stream before he speaks again. "I do not consider this discussion closed, Lightning," he says because he can't just ever just concede the point.

"I know." Coming to both knees in the water, she feels it tug the hem of her ruined skirt. She doesn't know why she reaches forward to cup his lowered face in his hands, except that it's all she can think of to do. She doesn't want him to hurt like this. And maybe she doesn't want to either. "I know," she repeats.

Turning his head, he sighs into her right hand. His eyes are open – in the strange light, they're a soft, confused color – but he hides them in a fall of messy hair. "Then I can pledge you only a steady sword arm, Lightning," he says. "It's what I have remaining. It was not what I – I – I'd hoped – "

_For one more sunrise. _Inanely, Lightning's mind starts a list into the space at the end of Kain's clipped-off words. _One more minute. Just a little more time. To get to know you better. You could meet my sister. It – _

She stops. Lets the rest of the rest of what she can't think and he can't say just drift between them, diffuse as grains of salt or drops of rain or light, whispering through mist.

It's almost without noticing it that Lightning feels her hands slide down from where she's rested them on the sides of Kain's face. Of their own volition, they ford like pilgrims over the scar-ruined planes of his shoulders, the stitching that reads like braille beneath his shirt, the ridges of his abdominal column until they find their way beneath the hem. His wet flesh is strong and supple, but under her freezing fingertips, it tenses, as if wary.

Spreading her fingers out against the skin, she can feel him breath now. And it gets faster every inch she rolls the fabric up.

"Lightning," Kain's voice is as suddenly firm on ear as his left hand is at her wrist. He doesn't push her away though, and eventually she feels the rigid fingers of his right hand come to rest at her collar. A thoughtful touch: not demanding or insistent at all. "What are you doing?"

Hauling in a long pull of air Lightning looks up at him. "For the first time in my life," she answers. "Whatever I want."

"This isn't – " he starts a sentence he doesn't finish, brings his thumb to her jaw. "My intentions aren't – "

"Yeah, well mine are," she cuts him off, turns her wrist out of his grip. She leaves her hands flat though, one on either side of him so she can feel the corrugation of his ribcage, the way it rises and falls. And even though she knows this is just another kind of goodbye, the only words she can find are limited, carefully controlled. "And your sword arm isn't what I want."

He tenses, and the thumb that was at her jaw comes to brush her lower lip. He pulls it open slightly, and his skin tastes only of salt. "Very well," he whispers, coming closer. "Then what do you want?" Pausing, he lets his hand drop, says the rest of what he's going to say to the strings of hair that are plastered to her cheek. "Tell me plainly. I've no mood for games tonight."

"_Games_?" Clawing her fingers into his ribs, Lightning pulls him up sharply, until they're nearly flush. "You fucking idiot," she mutters, furious with him for not understanding, with herself for not making it clear. "Who said _anything_ – Why would you ever think I – " the words are so hard for her, they nearly collapse on her breath " – no. No. No games."

Even through a dizzy, coiling haze of want, Lightning's surprised by how fast he's suddenly on top of her, how the sensations are like flashbulbs breaking, exaggerated and confusing, sparking everywhere at once. Warm lips; freezing water. Soft tongue; hard, splashing fall. She feels teeth clacking and brutal cold and pebbles – sharp and grainy – that press through her shirt until he strips it off, and then they just press through her skin.

She's not sure if there's a way to get his shirt off quickly enough. Lying back in the water, her hair's soaked through, and her fingers are blue and cold so she's clumsy. Eventually he breaks the embrace just long enough to do the work himself, and then he's back between her parted thighs again, making soft, shattered noises of want that help push all the bullshit away.

As freezing as she's ever been, Lightning doesn't know what to do. She's not a l'Cie anymore, a monster with half dead nerves, so it's too fucking cold to do this here, half-naked in a dirty, blistering stream. But still, she doesn't want to stop. So instead, she just wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders and tries to heat herself up; tries to take some of the warmth he's giving her and keep it as close as she can.

As if sensing something, Kain slows down. Stops fumbling with the buckle of her skirt, stops dragging his open mouth over the goosebumps on her jaw and collar and lifts her up – soaking wet and dented by pebbles, her skirt hiked up to her waist – to the warmest corner of the cavern he can find. He's whispering something comforting to her, but she honestly doesn't hear him, because her mind's crowded with other voices, with more things she can't bring herself to say.

_I was wrong about you,_ is the thought that spins in circles around her mind. _To think you didn't deserve anything good or kind._

When he sits them down again, she's still wrapped all the way around him, still chattering with cold. And while he's still rubbing her back in heavy circles, the urgency's gone out of his hands.

"We don't have to go farther," he offers into a cool, wet patch of skin beneath her ear, his fingers drawing tangled patterns with the hair that's wet against her spine. He's kissing her neck again, and his lips are the only warm she's got. "This wasn't the way I – " His teeth graze her pulse and Lightning feels another snap of _oh_ coil between her thighs. "You're – "

"_No._" Lightning's can't remember the last time she rejected something so hard. Shaking her head, she lets her fingers play over his naked back, tracing those ancient, sore-looking scars. "No. I'm just not used to it anymore, I – "

" – never wanted you to come to harm." His words are muffled by her skin, by a sudden angry burst of freezing wind, and Lightning can't tell if he's finishing her sentence or saying something else entirely. They're talking past each other; they miss each other by just a few words.

For a second, they're still as ironwood and just as silent. And Lightning lets warmth bloom between them, fragile and secret and so close to but not nearly enough. Shivering and trying to distract herself, she rocks herself closer, finds her mouth resting on a ridge of scar tissue, her tongue on a question she should have asked a long time ago.

"What happened?" she whispers.

If the arms that were holding her a second ago were firm but kind, now they're only hard. He freezes, and the heat leaves his body, and Lightning suddenly wonders if shattering the Mirror really worked, because it seems like she's just turned him to Stone.

"Kain."

No answer.

"_Kain,_" she repeats, harder. She hears a terrible rawness in her voice, but it doesn't matter because there's no time left for them anymore. Not really. And there are sheaves of parchment in her pack that are calling him back home.

Against her breasts, she feels how deeply he inhales. She feels the hands that were still over her back start moving again, although they're tentative now, as if afraid.

"Marks." It seems like a million motionless moments pass between question and answer. "That you might know me."

"What?" Lightning's confused but not angry that he's scared. She's so close she can taste it now. In the salt and the cold sweat, it's there. She draws his face up from where he's buried in her neck. There's no space between her thumbs and the planes of his cheekbones; there's no space between their eyes. "Kain, stop it. Tell me what happened. Tell me who did this to you."

What Lightning expects is to get thrown straight to the ground. She braces for it, in fact. But even though the brakes come of his strength and now he's pushing bruises in her skin, Kain stays still where he is. Turns. Sneers into her hand.

"You should know, Lightning. He sets me on every road I walk." Lightning only wishes she had something to say about the way his voice sounds. "Recently I do not struggle as I once did."

"Golbez?" The name's in Lightning's mouth before she fully understands what brought it there. But even as lips open over the "z", the parts of him she was missing before just fall into her mind. What he was trying to prove with that plan in Dissidia, why exactly he followed it through.

Lightning thinks but doesn't say that he shouldn't be ashamed. That it's okay. That he made the rightest choice he could in a world that was wrong in every possible way.

_And I forgive you, I think._

Kain's breathing as hard as he does when he's fighting. And Lightning can tell he's got no other way to say that she's right.

Suddenly realizing she's warm again, Lightning blinks open her eyes and tries to think of something to say. She doesn't have much, so she presses her lips to his brow, offers up the best words she's got. It's doubtful they'll sound too comforting, but she never was so good at that.

"Kain."

A beat. "Mm?"

"I didn't know, I…" Pausing for a second, she brushes his cheek with the back of her hand. "I'd have blown his fucking brains out."

To be honest, Lightning doesn't really know what Kain'll do in response. She's out of practice with stuff like this. It's possible she's thrown the moment away, or maybe made him feel worse. But whatever it is she's thinking he'll do has nothing in common with what he actually does.

He laughs. Low and unguarded, it rolls with the stream.

_What? _"What?" Lightning says, almost embarrassed. She feels warmth creep across her cheeks, and she'd probably think of just pushing away if she didn't see such incongruent softness in his face.

"Such avenging words," he says, returning his hands to her hips and his mouth to her jaw, "and kind. Kinder than you know." Heavy with lust and something deeper, his voice ripples down her spine. He goes on, speaking now against the swell of her left breast, where her brand used to be. "But I tire of talk. For now – " A quick tug sends her belt clear off her skirt; a sly push of still-wet fingers, a jolt through her nerves " – I've more compelling uses for your mouth."

Finally relaxing, Lightning lets go, laughs back, leans into the touch. Closing her eyes to the world around her, she doesn't see the distant sparkle of the mana high above them, just watching. Old as the river itself, its endless blue gazes on, holds their secrets fast in the long, long memory of stone.

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER: <strong>As the first salvo in the final battle flies, Tifa Lockhart and Cid Raines consider the cost of a crystal. Meanwhile, as Dissidia crumbles and Shinryu streaks across the sky, the party must decide how far they can really go, in order to save a friend.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Hi PS! As always, so wonderful to hear from you. Just to answer your question: yes, I reserve Kain's PoV for very specific points in the narrative. I jump into his head when I need to, but a lot of the fun of his character is putting your own spin on his more morally ambiguous actions: Did he run away to Ordeals because he's a coward or because he wanted to protect his friends from more betrayals? How many people did he kill on Golbez's command? Is he honorable and brave or self-serving and proud? If I stay out of his PoV, I can let you choose

**A/N(2): (SPOILERS) **Because XIII-2 is fun but basically an irredeemable mess of plot holes and unreliable narratives, in DoS backstory, Raines – as an Undying agent of Lindzei – was engaged in a kind of chess game with Caius, trying to prevent the opening of the Door of Souls/end of time. The Undying were one of my favorite pieces of worldbuilding in XIII, and some of my theories about them have made their way into this piece.

**A/N(3):** Crossover!meta. II and IV are very connected worlds. I view Mysidian customs to be very similar between. Hence Kain's knowledge of its high speech. Note the words themselves belong to Yeats. _Ephemera, _an old fave. It's unclear if the last stanza is dialectic, but I like to read it that way.


	17. CXIII1: Dead Men Dancing

Door of Souls, Chapter XIII-1: Dead Men Dancing

**Apologies: **My apologies for the unprofessional delay. A month spent working abroad, plus weeks of family, plus a whack-ton of _other _work that piled up while I was away, plus illness and general RL garbagio…. Please accept this double chapter as a giant-sized, angsty "I'm sorry". No blame to anyone for dropping this melodramatic door-stopper in the interim.  
><strong>Note:<strong> Part I goes up today. Part II within 3-5 days. It's finished; it just needs cleaning up. Also, this disregards the recent announcement of XIII-3 and is now completely alt-canon XIII-2.  
><strong>Warning: <strong>This is violent. Parts of it verge on very violent. I need all of it for the various resolutions, but please note this is graphic.  
><strong>Beta:<strong> None. Another reason for the delay above. So please point out stuff that sucks/is wrong/makes you go "meh". I'm re-mastering this, so your input matters.  
><strong>Thanks:<strong> For every review, rec, PM, new follower, new fave. They mean the world to me, particularly since I have come close to deleting this thing about 16 times in the last month. ;)

**Dedication: **For saltedpin and apathy, who are just about as amazing as two people could be.

* * *

><p>"<em>We are the people of the Apokaliss. Tomorrow there will be more of us."<em>

– Indra Sinha, _Animal's People_

* * *

><p>It is through the looking glass tiles of the Last Floor that Anima watches them prepare.<p>

Light rains on her. From the great cloud of souls that churns the sky from here to Valhalla, it falls like gold ground to dust. And while it is undeniably magnificent – its luminosity and motion; how it sets fire to planes of cold crystal and bleaches black rot from her chains – she finds she could not be more indifferent.

It does not interest her. She has seen it before. It is the ground that captures her focus; where she fixes her single eye. On the kaleidoscope of mirrored tiles that splinters and refracts her ruined face. The skeletal reflections of those who would pass through the Door of Souls.

They will begin their final journey soon. Soon, they will leave behind their encampment, board the ferry of Nero the Sable and be borne to the tower that leads to Etro's Throne.

Anima draws an exposed kneecap to her chin, considers what she sees. _The craft is small, enchanted, swift_. Rightly guided, it should grant them passage over the Rift's great river. It should lead them to Her Providence, and bring this sorry tale to an end.

Sighing, she feels the bandages on her chest pull and break as she breathes. There is a part of her that wonders if it is not already too late. Etro's champion has made an unexpected choice, and now the matter is more complicated, perhaps, than it should be.

Anima watches flakes of her skin fall off as she shakes what remains of her head. In the airlessness of the Last Floor, they do not flutter as they fall. _She yearns for freedom, Lightning Farron_. A destroyer by nature – for no finer killer exists in thirteen worlds – she still seems to long for a different kind of life.

One perhaps, where she might know something other than killing. Something other than loss.

_Pity, _Anima thinks. A person with her gifts should not fight her own nature. After all, her violence is her salvation. It is why she will be spared amongst the multitudes destined to die. The only reason she – of all the creatures that inhabit her doomed world – has been hand-picked by gods to fight until her hands bleed: until there is nothing left of her but broken, burning things.

Alone with her thoughts in the shattering cold, Anima acknowledges that she is well suited to the task. _Should she survive_. Dissidia crumbles and Shinryu will come in his rage, and if she is as human and fragile as she now appears to be, there is no guarantee that anything –even Her Providence – will remain.

They have cut a wide swath of destruction through the Rift, these six refugees. The Phantom Village fallen and the Gates of Song forever closed. The Limit Break abandoned and the Second White Chamber defiled. And it is nothing, still, compared with what will follow now that they have roused Fell Lindzei and Hallowed Pulse and lured them here. Now that all the lords of the Rift have committed to a battle that cannot be won.

The flies that nest in Anima's hair crawl over her scalp; she can feel their eggs hatch in her skin. They itch, and she adjusts herself where she sits, notes with disinterest how her muscles, boiled and soft, spindle away from the bone.

_Yes._ Anima scratches the spoiled flesh, but it offers no relief. Perhaps she ought to have killed them. Perhaps she ought to have defied divine Etro's will and destroyed them on the bridge. And while Shinryu may still have come hunting, perhaps the gods of Nova Crystallis might have kept their peace. At least then the Door would not now be threatened on all sides, besieged by intruders with enough power to shear the Rift apart.

But in the end, Anima supposes, that is not her task. Her task is to guide the dead, and to do Her Providence's bidding. And if She bids that there be war so she might claim Her champion, then that is how it must be.

Anima takes only hollow comfort in the First Mage's belief that it is still possible to win this game. In his dying belief there may yet be another way.

Minwu always was an optimist. _But then again, who knows?_ The maps in the Mirror of Atropos lead to strange places. It's possible he saw something Anima does not. He died content with Lightning Farron's peculiar decision, and there had to be reason for that.

Confused, Anima blinks her single eye. Lightning's brand could have been lifted by other decisions. She might have taken ultimate power – chosen to fully accept the gifts Etro was forcing upon her, pushing into her blood beside the curse of the l'Cie – but she did not. It was humanity she wanted, not godhood, and Minwu thought that ideal. _Elegant, _Anima knows he believed, because that is what his soul whispered as it passed, but she does not know why.

_Perhaps_, Anima dares the thought, _there is a chance Yuna might yet live_. Pausing, she purses lips that come apart beneath the pressure. _Perhaps._

Anima has not hoped for anything in some time, but she hopes for this.

No wind blows on the Last Floor, but broken strings of hair still fall in Anima's face. She brushes them aside and continues to stare. Through the honeycombed glass, Etro's champion and her companions do not appear like men and women of any importance at all – the heroes of grand stature who stride the history of their worlds. If anything, they seem small and powerless. A band of ragged travelers who seek a final second of rest before they're swallowed by road or river or sea.

These are intimate things Anima witnesses. Conspiracies and confidences that pass in fear and longing and regret. And while a part of her knows she should leave these moments private, such decorum has not stopped her before.

She wants to see. However rotted, a heart still beats in her chest, and these images pull at it. Remind her of what she saw in humanity so long ago; what once she gave her only son to save.

It is Yuna and Aerith she sees first. In the Library, speaking low beneath their breath. The daughter of the Lifestream has tears in her eyes, and she holds the Ultima tome to her chest as a child might hold a doll. It is strange to see her like this, so fragile and powerful at once. But that has ever been her great contradiction.

She has been the strongest of them and the weakest. The best and the worst. A ribboned martyr for a world all too desperate for something to believe. In her own universe, they demand nothing of her – save that be she perfect. Save that she be something impossible, so that others might have faith that it exists.

Anima wonders if any other than the First Mage of Fynn truly saw her for what she was. And if he was right to trust such a frail creature with the fate of so much and so many. Ignorant to the last possible second of what she wore in her hair, she was barely able to save a single dying Planet. It seems beyond folly to give her responsibility for all.

But there it is, and it cannot be changed. She will lead or all will lose, and there is nothing else to be done.

The boy and the man with the guns converse on a ragged salt-swept shore, speak on matters of no moment. The child is sharp; the man, as wise as he is foolish, and he looks out on the river with the respect that it deserves. Neither of them of them trust these waters or its Ferryman, and it is a wise position to take. Nero will never betray his brother, but the current obeys no master, and they will be hunted indeed.

In all the Rift, there is no creature more relentless than he who was once Cid Raines. Lindzei could have selected none better. And he will prowl the river until he finds what he is looking for; until Etro's champion and all her companions are crushed beneath its waves.

And yet there they stand: waiting, ready, prepared. She supposes they are brave, although whether such bravery is anything other than delusion remains a question that hangs open in the air.

Anima watches the man with the guns put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and feels something like kinship. His children are good, though he knows they will always despise him for leaving. She cannot tell if that is better or worse than her child who was mad, but who loved her more than she ever understood.

After a moment, she dismisses the thought. All parents betray their children eventually. It is only a matter of degree.

The one who lost her crystal sits alone in the prow of the ferry, toying with ropes of hair the wind throws in her face. She is nervous because they burn already, the words Lindzei's trap carved her mind. Anima knows the pain must be considerable, but she seems to hide it well enough.

Tifa Lockhart grimaces. Pupils dilated and too wide, her eyes seek solace in the dark.

Anima would sigh if she could. _She trusts too easily, this one_. And now that she has freely given her crystal; now that she leaves behind the enchantments of Shinryu and the Lufaine, her mind is something Raines could steal as easily as breath. What Anima does not understand is why he has not yet attempted it. The Lufenian's magic wears thin. It would be possible to do it now. Aerith and Yuna combined have not the power to stop it…

It is perhaps out of some sense of honor that he refrains. Something he found lying in the boneyard of his memory, in the same heap of ash where he seems to have found his name.

Etro's champion herself flips her weapon open and shut in the narrows of some hall. And while she must notice the man who walks up behind her, she never lifts her eyes from her blade.

Shadows fall on her expression. It is a play of light and shadow, as she is: something dark and something bright.

It is sad, as well, raw with confusion and regret, and Anima believes it is well enough the dragoon does not see it. It is unlikely he would know what to do. Though perhaps that is the only reason she tolerates the intimacy; why she permits him close enough to wound.

There is hesitation in the hand he sets on her left hip, the thumb he draws over the bone. It is too used to killing and trial, Anima suspects, to the strangling of reflections in magic Lunar mirrors, to know much of comfort in the end.

The prodigal son of a guilty empire, there are long miles for him to walk before he returns home.

She flinches at the contact. And he withdraws the touch.

It is very careless, this thing they do. And fruitless, in the end. She will kneel to a goddess; he to a mountain crowned with ice and there is nothing for either of them but emptiness of one kind or another. It is the nature of destiny to toy with its creatures; and Etro's champion is nothing, if she is not that.

"Come," he says. She turns her head a bare inch towards him and it is the only movement she makes. Against the dark of his doublet, her hair is the color of a setting sun. There is kindness in his eyes he does not show her. "We leave on the hour."

"Yeah," she says and the word is nearly lost in the sound of a blade snapping shut. She tries, too late, to catch his hand as he turns and walks away. "I know."

There's little else to say, but pausing in the archway he speaks again anyway. "Lightning." He is stern because he knows no other way. "If you start on this road –" a kind of venomous worry lingers in the word "– you realize there's no going back?"

"No kidding, Highwind." She clenches the fist not on her weapon. "I heard you fine the first time." Her eyes blink shut. "You did what you had to do, too."

"It is not the same thing." Anima sees him look back when Lightning does not. "We've not discussed alternatives."

"_We _aren't discussing anything." When she opens her eyes again they are the cold, dry blue of autumn sky. "My life. My world. My choice." Anima notes the rise and fall of her throat as she swallows. "Nothing's changed here, Kain."

It is perhaps the loss that throbs beneath her voice that convinces Anima to cease her spying. These intrusions are an indulgence she permits herself, but there is little of worth to see. She recognizes words of farewell when she hears them, and they are always, always cruel.

The set of Kain Highwind's mouth is the last thing she sees before the image fades. The words, "Is that so?", the last thing she hears.

There is no accounting for what Anima feels as the mirror tiles return to a flawless gleam. She wanted them dead. She had thought them better dead, than harbingers of what is to come. She is not so certain she believes that, anymore.

She has been wrong before, she thinks. It would not be so terrible to be wrong again.

Rising, Anima looks up at the Door of Souls and the unreal light in which it sits. A nexus, a gate, it is a jewel whose facets connect all worlds, and it rules the sky as such. Shielding her eye with her melted hand, not even broken bones and tattered flesh can impugn its majesty. _It endures. _Beyond the schemes of men and gods, it endures. And surrounding it, in chorus, the souls of the dead still sing. A harmony of loss and resentment and mourning; of joy and peace and faith.

It sounds like something dying. Or something being born.

Closing her visible eye, Anima drops her hand and listens. Then after a time she parts her lips, and softly, begins to sing.

* * *

><p>Though his goddess has named him Stainless, there is nothing immaculate about Brigadier General Cid Raines.<p>

His is not a story about honor or greatness or sacrifice. It is not a story about heroes, or gods and their madness, or the worship on which they feed.

It is a story about the blood he keeps on his hands. It is the story of himself, as an author. The history he wrote in carbon and smoke on the back of Gran Pulse itself.

He remembers it all, now. A million memories like dead stars. Though long collapsed into lightless gravity, they guide him still. Frozen flame. The illuminated will of Fell Lindzei.

He did not ask for them. He does not want them. But since Tifa Lockhart opened the doors in his mind, he is trapped with them. He cannot escape. They hunt him: even now as he crouches alone, wings folded, on a vast, bone-colored pillar of salt; even now, as the rabid river rolls beneath him, bearing his prey.

They whisper to him. They nip at his ear and accuse him of a life too many times lived. Of times he trespassed, locked in combat with Caius Ballad, over the timelines Etro snarled in her blindness.

Bhunivelze wakes early, because of Her. Because of Her, the fate of all gods rests on whether he can kill a solitary woman before she becomes the last piece in Caius' ploy.

A brutal wind pulls at his hair, carries glittering grains of salt over his vision, but that is not what Raines is seeing. What he sees is himself, murdered a hundred times. The first and best by Rygdea, whose bullet is a being he prays to. All the times after that, by Fell Lindzei Herself, whom he does not.

He sees himself razing nations. The smell was savory. Burned, unsalted meat.

"_Pulse help me, please leave my sister alone. I'll do anything you want. Anything, **please –** " _

He sees himself dueling Caius on Paddra's broken stones. Yeul's blood was sticky, warm and wet upon his face; her child's mouth open, toothless, crushed.

"_I will destroy you, Raines, and every god you serve." _

He sees himself standing over Vercingetorix's shattered body. The first time the soldiers of Oerba rent his flesh from his bones. Before his mind gave way to Undying rot.

"_You should have joined me, Raines. There was a task we should have shared, Cid Raines. We shared a task..."_

He sees himself brought low, again and again – beaten and broken; remade and reformed; a doll made of dust and blood and bone – because he failed. Because for everything he did; every murder he committed, he was always failing.

Scowling into the grinding salt, Raines vows it: he will not fail today. Today or tomorrow, Lightning Farron will die and there will be nothing left of her but the river. Primordial in scope, and older than the oldest gods, it will flow on, pitiless, and have no more care for her fate or the fate of her companions than an ocean has for an atom.

Though his wings are closely folded to his back, Raines pulls them taut until they are just more plates of armor, white on darker white. They shield him from wind that grows more ravenous by the second, from the memory of screaming pain.

Unmoving, Raines' gaze tracks his allies. Vercingetorix among the Cie'th in the far distance: from this perspective a jewel-winged lord of moths in a kingdom of flies. The shadow dragoon he reformed from the cleaving magic of the Lunarian Mirror, standing sentry by the shore. And Barthandelus, the thing Barthandelus has become, standing in the middle of the river_ praying – _

Raines blinks from the horror of it. He does not need to see. What he hears is enough. Orgiastic and careening, it is the same drooling, devotional madness this creature screamed a thousand years ago as the cardinal fal'Cie of Cocoon.

"Rejoice." Longing throbs in his voice. "Know Her coming, blasphemers, and _rejoice._"

Disgusted, Raines ignores the howling. He is this revolting creature's master now, but it gives him no pleasure. Although he doubts he would recognize the feeling, even if it did.

If there is one thing that Raines cannot in fact remember, it is pleasure.

It is almost absently that Raines brings Tifa's crystal to his lips. Still dense with Cosmos' enchantments, he can feel her heartbeat pulse in it – slithering warmth in the dead cold – and he knows that she is close. When he parts his lips to inhale, he can taste her fear in it. Her sadness. Her hope.

It tastes like the river. It tastes like salt.

"_I'm sorry we couldn't help you."_

Somewhere in the crash of the waves, in the feeding cries of the Cie'th that skim the water then veer back to the sky, Raines hears her words. She was damned already when she said them – her face sweet and scared – but still, he remembers she offered apology. As if saving him were some duty she failed in. As if the impossible were a thing she mastered daily, ordinary as a smile.

Caustic spray pounds Raines' immobile face, and he wonders if that is not the basic tragedy of all those who seek to change the world: heroes, villains, whatever history might deem them. _Belief_. Stupid and stubborn and intoxicating as drink.

"I am, too." The words are sawdust. He does not know why he says them, other than he feels that he must. "I am sorry for that, too."

It is distant and steady, the heartbeat in the crystal. It has nothing to say in reply. He does not know why this disappoints him. It should not.

He suppose he could force her. He could take her mouth and wrench it open and put in it any words he pleases. Lindzei's trap leaves it in his power. But he refuses.

Death is preferable to slavery. Particularly for such a soul as hers. A kind one. Filled with ill-advised mercy and foolish good deeds.

As her pulse beats warm against his lips, Raines wonders inanely if he will see it when he splits open her chest. If it will sit between her spread ribs, congeal in the gaps of her spine.

"**_Son of mortals._**_"_

It is not surprising to Raines that Lindzei's voice returns to him now. She has long been in congress with Hallowed Pulse, and he has been expecting Her to come to him from some time.

What he does not expect is the force with which She speaks.

Her words are a nail at his sinuses. Her fear – _for that is what it is _– the spike that drives it through.

Falling to his knees, Cid Raines screams.

"**_The time is now, Stainless One. They draw near._**_"_

If Raines is certain of nothing else, he is certain that he is bleeding. He is bleeding and for a reason that lies beyond his understanding, he does not heal.

There is wet everywhere.

It is in his eyes so he weeps it. It is in his throat so he coughs it. It in his ears so there is no sound but Her voice.

Dully, he notices red drench the pillar of salt in scrawling patterns. _Pennants, _he thinks, delirious, _or kites_. Or anything else that is a tail of crimson reaching back against a white and mindless sky.

"**_Heed these words. Trust in me and only me."_**

For the first time in all the lives he has lived, Raines does not know what She is telling him.

**_"Mortals worshipped fire first."_**

His throat is not deep enough for how long and hard he screams.

**"_And fire is all there shall be."_**

Filled with blood, his mouth has no room for praise.

**_"Hallowed Pulse is neither enemy nor friend._**

Panic. All the world is panic. It is huge and it fills him. It is the beginning and the end.

**_"There is no loyalty but loyalty to me"_**

She speaks too quickly. The words are babble Raines cannot translate. Vaguely, he is aware that his hand is empty, and that it is grasping, and that Tifa Lockhart's crystal is gone.

"_I'm sorry we couldn't help you."_

He rakes his fingers over salt and feels the flesh come off.

"_I am sorry for that, too." _

He reaches for nothing and finds nothing and has nothing.

_Is nothing. _He is nothing without Her.

It revolts him.

"**_Spurn Him not, nor spurn His Undying.  
>But trust in me and only me."<em>**

It is everything that Raines can do to nod. The blood has made the salt soft and yielding, and it seems like he is grating his face against ground glass.

He still does not comprehend the meaning of her terror, or why Hallowed Pulse's name seems to echo with contempt. He comprehends that there is red, a universe painted red, and that he cannot see through it except to the hazy grey of Vercingetorix's skin-sealed and grinning mouth.

Raines wonders if Vercingetorix finds this satisfying. To be the one, for once, to lord over the defeated.

_He should. _Raines thinks that he should.

"**_Son of mortals, I bid you answer."_**

Raines cannot.

He would trade everything he has ever been to answer Her, but there is nothing to say.

His throat is stopped or broken; or he is dying, one more time. And as pain pulls apart his senses, he wonders if he ever knew how to speak words.

Was he ever a man at all? Did he ever dream of anything that was not this?

It is possible he weeps. It is possible there is thinner wetness that cuts the blood on his face but there is no way to be sure.

"**_Answer.  
>Use the tongue I have given you."<em>**

Raines does not quite understand how he forces, "Yes," from his mouth. If it is even a coherent sound. But whatever it is, the second it passes his lips, there is no more pain. Her voice is gone, and he is healing again, though he finds himself face down in a vile mess of membrane and salt.

Thoughts float on the surface of his mind, disconnected. Leaves in a pond. Maple keys, falling. Shuddering, he pulls himself to a kneel and lets his senses return to him. He permits them to emerge, each distinctly, from the fevered horizon of his pain.

The sound of the river. The endless screech of fiends. The beat of Vercingetorix's wings above him, a hundred fleeting butterflies, moving all at once.

Raines breathes heavily and cannot determine what has just happened to him, or why. Lindzei is no goddess of mercy, but he has never sensed naked panic from Her before. Nor cruelty of this nature. She has never before demanded his trust, which has always been nothing short of absolute.

At the border of his mind, Raines wonders if She has seen some part of his heart he thought buried, but he doubts it.

It is something else. Another schism between the gods of Nova Crystallis that he neither understands nor cares to.

Head bowed, he watches the remains of the blood in his nose fall, splatter the enchanted steel of his greaves. _No_. He cares nothing for civil war. He cares to finish what he started. What he started for himself, when once he was like Lightning Farron. When he too, thought the world something good, and worth fighting for.

_Stupidity. _He does not pity her. Should she pass this river and wash up at Etro's feet, she deserves the fate she bargained for. _We all deserve the ends we meet, in the end._

It is the first lucid thought that he has. The second is that Tifa Lockhart's crystal remains discarded at his side. Half-buried, it pulses with her heartbeat, and the sound grows louder the closer and closer she gets.

They will be here soon, ready to die. He hates them. He hates Her. He hates every single thing that has brought him to this place.

Although Tifa's crystal lies unadulterated by his blood, Raines refuses to reach for it yet. He does not want to touch it anymore.

Why did he think she deserved mercy? There was no such thing for him. He coughs, and there is still so much blood. _It was only a name._

If he desires a toy of his own, he sees no reason he should not take it.

It cannot be that he is the lowliest of all these slaves. That he alone should simply bear this torture, have no agenda of his own. Even Minwu had a moment of triumph. Even Vercingetorix has a madness he can call his own...

That his fellow Undying has not moved from where he was hovering is something Raines does not notice until later. And for the first time in the thousands of years Raines has known him, Vercingetorix is silent. He only waits, the smallest of his six jeweled wings outstretched, as if offering something.

Raines raises his head. It makes no sense, this gesture. But the gods are mad and the universe that spawned them is mad, and this is the least, Raines supposes, of its conspiracies.

_We share a task, after all_. Raines almost laughs through the blood still coating his mouth. It is lunacy, but for this second, it is also true.

Rising wordlessly, Raines takes the limb held out to him. The contact is fleeting, but he cannot help but feel they have finally reached some kind of understanding, some kind of accord.

"_You see, you see, you see, Cid Raines,"_ Vercingetorix cackles, flipping back. Against twisting curtains of salt and spray, he is a dancer. The cutting wind anoints him. "_You do not always have to suffer, you do not always have to kneel. There are ways, Cid Raines, we share a task, Cid Raines..."_

Raines does not know exactly what to say in response, so he only nods. And when Vercingetorix spins, dives back down towards the river, he takes only the second he needs to grab Tifa Lockhart's crystal before following close behind.

* * *

><p>Wailing; ugly; inhuman: the scream rocks the entire boat.<p>

Although Yuna's the first to flinch, they all hear it. Staggering and dissonant, it skids over the freezing river, pierces the white noise of the Cie'th that spin overhead. And though Nero's darkness falls like fog around them – shields them from sight and dissolves the sky in fizzy black – there's nevertheless something so sad about it, so dense with loss, she can't help but bow her head.

_Defeat_, Yuna thinks, shivering and trying to keep her seat as the ferry rolls steeply left against the waves. _That's what it sounds like_. A never-the-same-again type of sound that she's heard all too many times before, when the souls of good men go Unsent.

It's a sound of keening desperation, and it soars through the cavern for a long, long time. Longer than a throat could ever take. And as her eyes flit back and forth between her friends, clustered as they are against each side of the narrow ferry, she sees the same story written on everyone's face.

Fear first. Then confusion. Then sorrow. _Or pity_. _Or both_.

Everyone's face that is, except for Tifa's. Salt-frosted and wet, in the hundred-winged shadow of the cavern her expression's all waxy devastation. And Yuna thinks she sees wetness gathering in her eyes that isn't from the surging waves that scales the sides of the boat.

She's trembling. _Badly_. Lightning's hand is on her knee and Aerith's arm is around her shoulders, but it doesn't seem to help. She just sits there, eyes squeezed shut, her two top teeth chewing into her lower lip.

Frustrated, Yuna won't let herself shudder despite the withering cold. She doesn't understand the source of Tifa's pain, or how to make it stop. Aerith and she noticed right away that something was wrong, but the Ribbons didn't help her and there were no poisons to Dispel. _There was nothing, in fact. _Nothing wrong with her that white magic could reach, no matter how hard she pushed the spells.

Pounded by spiteful waves, the boat pitches, rocks and groans. And Yuna can't tell what's worse, the bruising jolts or the way Tifa seems to ignore them, slender fingers clawing as they curl over her ears.

Yuna doesn't know how far a scream should be able to stretch without breaking. Though when it finally recedes, Yuna think it takes every other sound with it; pulls the world back to silence the way a wave pulls the beach from the shore.

In the seat beside Laguna, Vaan's face drips water and irrtation, and his sandy hair hangs limp and damp over his eyes. "Guys," he says. "What was that?"

Sitting by Nero at the prow, Aerith's the one who answers. Instinctively squeezing Tifa's shoulder, Yuna notices her skin looks bloodless: so pale in the darkness it borders on blue. "Raines," is all she says.

Lightning grimaces, and her grip on Tifa's knee tightens as the boat heaves against another wave. "The hell's happening to him?"

"I – I don't know." The voice Tifa uses to answer sounds hollowed out. Eyes flashing open, she hides her face in a cloud of stormy hair. "I don't know."

"Taking bets on 'nothing good'," Laguna quips as as he shakes a cartridge in place on his machine gun. "Anyone want to ante up? Got short odds on this , but I'm up to trade some gil if anyone else is."

"Come_,_ come," Nero hisses dryly. "A child wets the bed, cries for its mother." Half-dissolved in the carbonated magic he's thrown over the boat, the crimson in the blacks of his eyes is blood soaking through bandages. "Hardly fatal."

"Tch." Aerith's nose crinkles in disgust, and the freezing spray that frosts her eyelashes only makes her eyes seem unworldly; a kind of green that shouldn't exist. "You're revolting, Nero."

"So sensitive, flower girl," Nero responds. Bored now, he shrugs and looks away. "And here I'd thought you'd grown a spine."

The response that quivers on Aerith's lips dies the second Tifa reaches over and squeezes her arm.

"_Are you sure you trust him, Lady Aerith?" _Yuna sends the thought over quietly, a message through whatever it is that links the pyreflies to the Lifestream, whatever it is that lets them speak this way. _"He's very, very cruel, I think."_

"_Yes he is, Yuna."_ Turning to meet her gaze, Aerith inclines her head. A cruel wind howls, but Yuna still hears every word. _"And I trust him like I trust a rash, but he'll get Lightning to the Last Floor. He can't save his insane brother, otherwise._" Holding Tifa a bit tighter, she tries a smile. _"We just need to be careful, that's all."_

Nobody speaks after that, and Yuna folds her hands in her lap, uneasy with the quiet. She doesn't like this. Not even a little bit. She understands they had to leave Cid's Lab, and that no matter what, they've got to get to the Last Floor before Shinryu, _but still_…. Freezing and unsettled, she rubs schools of goosebumps off her wet, clammy skin. Crossing a sacred river this way – in this tiny, ancient dinghy; draped in Nero's corrupt magic – it all seems so wrong. Like they're laughing through a graveyard, or disturbing some wild, magic creature while it sleeps.

And everyone seems so _tense_. Lowered though they are, Yuna's eyes flit over her friends, and nobody really seems to be looking at each other. All of Aerith's small, comforting touches don't seem to get past Tifa's ashen skin, and Vaan and Laguna keep staring out at the river as if it's about to attack. Kain and Light are at opposite ends of the boat, and even though she can see they need it for some reason, the space between them is wider than it needs to be, and sad. Filled with all kinds of words, she guesses, neither of them really know how to say.

Sighing, Yuna turns her attention back to the water, watches cannibal waves crash and consume themselves. Her father would say that the power of a dark place like this isn't in what it hides, but what it reveals. _In the dark, you can only see yourself, after all._ She thinks he was right, of course, but he was right about a lot of things.

"_The river of the Great Caves runs from Spira to the Feymarch, little Yuna, to the very heart of the world." _Yuna thinks back on the old fairy tale. It's strange, but no matter how many years have passed since then, she remembers the lines around her father's eyes as he smiled, lonely and playful and kind. "_Can you even imagine its secrets?"_

Sore from salt abrasion, Yuna's skin stings as a vicious wind yanks the rags of her kimono. Swallowing a wince, she looks up at the rotting things that hunt them, and wonders if her father knew somehow. _That the river wasn't really a story._ That maybe – like all the terrifying things he'd dressed in wonderful games and songs so she wouldn't be afraid – he was trying to teach her something. Warn her, in case she might need it someday.

Blinking frigid spray from her eyes, Yuna stares calmly at the bottomless darkness stretching out in front of them and can't decide. The only thing she knows for certain is that this has the feel of a false pilgrimage. And that even though she's never been afraid of anything that lives beneath the skin of the visible world, there's something about this part of thier journey that spiders over her nerves: quick and sharp-footed and mean.

A remorseless crack against the ferry's starboard side sends the thoughts clear out of Yuna's mind. Clutching the bench, her stomach lurches even though her body stays perfectly still. She's certain she'd feel queasy if Laguna's warm eyes weren't the first thing she saw when she finally looked up.

Calm and steady and spirit-lifting, they're good to hold on to. So she does.

"C'mon guys." Smiling, he addresses every soggy, frozen person on the ferry. "Don't look so wound-up. I say we try and think of it as a cruise." Gesturing expansively, the arc of his arm takes in the insane current, the Cie'th, the haunting salt formations that sweep up from the shore. "We've got scenery. Local wildlife. Engaging tour guide. What else could you ask for?"

Pulling his knees to his chin, Vaan tries to pull his vest shut before answering. "I dunno, Laguna," he says, teeth chattering. "Could use a hot meal maybe. A bath. The stuff we left back in the Phantom Village would be nice too – "

"As would _silence_," Nero interrupts. Slick with wetness, his iron wings bristle, birdish and anorexic. "It does take some effort to keep you alive." He keeps talking, even though he hasn't turned from the prow. "Or perhaps you would prefer to die? So long as I've Her Providence's pet, I'm thrilled either way."

"You've got me?" Spray plasters hair to Lightning's brow, but Yuna doesn't need to see her eyes to catch the threat in her voice. The laugh she lets has edges that cut. "Funny."

Rare, wolfish anger touches Laguna's face, hardens his expression. "Well, now that we've got that cleared up, think you could ease up on the asshole a bit?" Strapping his gun back on his shoulder, he smirks. "Ever try having a bit of fun? Or is it just all pyscho all the – "

The wave that barrels over the side of the ferry and crushes the words from Laguna's mouth comes from over Yuna's head. Black and nerve-splitting cold, it snaps her head forward, sends her reeling into the planks. She feels things crack that shouldn't. And the water that pours over the rail is so salty it almost burns.

"Damn it_._" Someone's cursing but she can't tell who. "Not again."

Listing heavily port side, the ferry almost tips clear over. Frantic to redistribute weight, bodies lurch, and Yuna feels herself crushed into the relative softness of tangled arms and legs before the vessel rights itself, and all of a sudden her head's cracking back against wood.

She almost can't tell when the ferry rights itself. It seems to her it keeps rocking a long time after it's probably stopped.

"Now what was I saying?" Nero's voice, vaguely amused, floating over the sharp sounds of scratching. "Ah, yes – _Silence_."

Yuna makes out Vaan, snarling. "Jerk."

Bleeding but doing his best to grin, it's Laguna who gets his bearings first. Making his way across the deck, he smiles as he helps her back to her seat. "So maybe not a cruise," he says playfully, smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Maybe more like white water rafting."

Looking like a wet, angry cat, Lightning's at the back of the boat, her body angled protectively over Vaan's. "Really, Loire?" She blinks. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Why?" he asks, settling back into his seat. "I think it's a pretty good analogy, actually Light."

"You're nuts." Incredulous, she pauses, wipes a trail of blood from her mouth. "Just –completely insane."

"Now, now Light," he retorts. "No need to exaggerate. I wouldn't say 'completely', anyway."

"Oh give it up, Laguna." Pulling off his shoe with quick, wrinkly fingers, Vaan scowls before he empties it out and then puts it back on again. "You okay, Yuna?"

Coughing out salt water, Yuna offers him a small, dizzy smile. "I'm fine, I think."," she says. "Thank you, Vaan." Smoothing the salt and cold-crunchy rags of her kimono, she takes a tentative look around. "Everyone else?"

"Looks like we're all in one piece." Pulling a cloth from his jacket, Laguna starts oiling the salt from the barrel of his MP-7. "Well, most of us anyway." Looking concerned, he eyes Kain, who's sprawled with his legs outstretched in the bottom of the boat. "Hey. Highwind. You in there, buddy?"

When he doesn't answer, Laguna kicks him. "_Hey,_" he repeats. "Earth to Sir Bastard. Make a noise."

Apparently undisturbed by the six inches of gritty bilge he's sitting in, or the torrent of wind that splashes it into his boots, Kain has his elbow to a raised knee and his head cradled in his hand. His armor was too heavy to freight down the boat with, so he's dressed only in his doublet and leather breeches, and Yuna can see every unhappy shade of green he's turned.

"…No," he replies finally, and it's the first thing he said since they boarded the boat.

"Wait." Wringing water from his vest, Vaan takes a break from looking soaked, bruised and annoyed and blinks. "You're _seasick?_" He seems honestly surprised. "Really? _You?_"

Through drenched, wind-whipped strands of hair, Kain glares. "Does it look like someone else?"

"Oh, leave him alone, Vaan." Tifa's still sickly white and shaking, but there's the ghost of a smile on her lips. Hooking her arm through Aerith's, her voice is light and teasing when she goes on. "He's delicate – right, Light?"

An expression that crosses murder with pure murder flashes across Lightning's face. But then she looks at them – Tifa's crooked grin, Kain's obvious misery – and some of the ice in her expression melts. "Cute, Lockhart," she says eventually, grabbing his spear from where it's lying in the bilge and hauling herself up on the bench beside him. "But yeah. He's got his soft spots, I guess."

"Is it much to ask – " Kain still hasn't moved " – that you not mock me?"

"Well, that depends," Tifa replies reasonably, "it's either that, or we talk about dying or getting eaten. And I don't really want to talk about getting eaten, do you?" She stops, glances around for support. "Well?"

"Hmpf." Shaking his head, Vaan chuckles, stops checking his vest for lost status charms. "Good point, Teefs."

"No argument here." Laguna sets his gun across his knees offers a jaunty salute. "I can rib Highwind all day."

Finally lifting his head, Kain challenges Lightning's eyes for only a second before he takes back his weapon. "Hm. How remarkable." Turning to catch the oiled cloth Laguna tosses him out of midair, he smirks. "Has anyone ever told you, you're a man of thoroughly useless talents?"

"Just my wife," Laguna replies without missing a beat. "So you're in good company, friend."

Putting her hand over her lips, Yuna breathes out a soft giggle. It seems so silly to be smiling trapped in this cramped, freezing boat with monsters screaming overhead. But as a quiet, murmuring laughter fills the captive air she thinks maybe it's sillier not to.

They don't have much of a choice. Between Dissidia and this awful, awful place, they've lost everything but each other. There's no reason they can't have a little joy. Something good to warm them in the evil cold.

Smiling wider, she's about to try a joke. Yuna's never thought of herself as particularly funny, but she thinks she could give it a shot – _Recommend Esuna for seasickness maybe? Maybe say Laguna's not so bad at getting lost?_ – but she stops when she feels a shadow creep over her skin. Slow and intent, it's the deepest possible shade of black.

It's shaped almost like a man; almost like an angel.

The delicate laughter in the boat narrows until it's total silence. And even though Yuna doesn't want to look up, is suddenly sick with the knowledge of what she'll see when she looks up, she does anyway.

_Raines_. A dead-eyed fiend of savage beauty, he hovers right above them, just watching.

She doesn't know why his wings have so much blood on them. Why each beat of startling white sends thin crimson mist across the deck.

Yuna feels her breath freeze in her lungs, and it's as if she's looking at Anima again, that first time in Luca, at summer's end.

The boat rearranges itself. Vaan's knife comes out his vest as Kain turns to a crouch with his spear up in guard. Light's weapon snaps to a gun and she reclines back on the bench, her aim clear and high through the sight.

Laguna's cartridge locks in place. Quick and sharp, the sound cracks the silence in two.

"_Nero_." Aerith's speaks in a sharp whisper. "Can he see us?"

"_Silence_." Tightly wound rage is the only thing in Nero's voice. Already half lost to darkness, his face seems to come apart in it now. "If you value what remains of your life, flower girl, you will all be silent."

_This shouldn't be happening. _Nero's magic is thick, like the Lifestream in reverse. He barely even knows how to use it, but even wielded by his vindictive, childish hand, Raines shouldn't be able to see through it. _Unless – _

Her eyes dart to Tifa, who's clutching Aerith as if she's the last person on earth. And suddenly Yuna realizes that maybe nobody really understood what happened when Tifa set her hands on Raines' long-dead cheeks; when she put her crystal in his long-dead hands.

"_It's Tifa." _Yuna sends the thought to Aerith. "_Oh, Lady Aerith. We're too close. He can find her…"_

"_I know." _Aerith looks at her with eyes that simmer with magic and sadness. "_I understand. Brace yourself."_

It's the sound of snapping fingers that brings Yuna's gaze back up, and she sees that Raines has been joined. Flapping beside him is a fiend like Yuna's never seen. Rotting, with tiny fingers instead of eyes, he both twists in the wind and commands it. And the mouth he uses to laugh is sealed tight with stretching scabs.

Raines pays it no attention. His fractured eyes are fixed on Tifa, and when she finally looks up, Yuna knows there's nothing any of them can do. One way or the other, it ends here.

Yuna starts a summoning incantation. She doesn't know if she'll have the time to finish it.

"Raines," Tifa whispers. Her eyes seem to crawl backwards in her head. "Raines, _please._"

In response, Raines offers the smallest bow. A tempest of dying flesh gathers behind him, and against it, his armor burns with light. "Hello, Tifa Lockhart." He raises a flawless hand. "It has been some time."

Aerith reacts before anyone can respond. Bolting to her feet, Lifestream clings to her, and she twists it to punishing blades of new-spring green. At her command, the magic screws straight up, bores surgical holes in a fleshy cloud of demons, but even though it hurt Raines before, it doesn't work this time. This time, he seems to have been expecting it.

Alone, he beats his wings against a rage of emeralds. Electricity turns his skin translucent, and the smile he smiles is the slow and patient grin of a skull.

Yuna doesn't know if she's ever seen anything more insane.

"No, Aerith Gainsborough." He draws his sword, and it slits the veins of the Lifestream. "Not again."

"Everyone hold on!" Maybe Lightning screams it. Maybe Aerith. Either way, it makes no difference because there's gunfire and scrambling and battering waves. There's darkness and green and people reaching for each other in a crush of impact that rattles her teeth and smothers the half-formed spell from her lips.

Yuna doesn't see Aerith redirect the magic, but she knows that's what's happening. She can feel the crackle and snap of it as she gives up trying to rip Raines to shreds and sends it wider, an electric cyclone that tears open the dark like a storm breaks open the morning.

The sky explodes.

Flakes of dead flesh fall like poplar fluff. The waves have hunting claws. They're everywhere, _and_ –

The boat capsizes.

Silken feathers are as warm as the water is cold. She sees hands torn apart. Hears groans and names and a gut-wrenching "_No!_", _and_ –

The river washes them away.

* * *

><p>The truth is, Laguna Loire's not so fond of drowning.<p>

Now, he's familiar with almost-dead. Casually speaking, he'd say that he's flirted with almost-dead quite a bit over the course of his life.

Off the top of his head, he's – _one – _thrown himself off a cliff when fatally injured – _two – _thought seriously about hopping into bed a with an excessively snakey, trans-dimensional Cloud of Darkness – _three – _followed, _Lightning Farron_, of all people, into not one but two hopeless battles for the fate of the world – _four – _forgot to put the toilet seat down after Raine screamed at him, _blah, blah, blah,_ et cetera, et cetera.

_So yeah. _Almost-dead. Nearly Dead. Ninety-nine point nine percent dead. He's been there, done that. But as freezing water bullies its way into his nostrils, as he finds himself kicking up through the current and holding on to Yuna for both of their lives, Laguna figures that today's particular serving of almost-dead ranks right up there with the best of it.

Spluttering right at the surface, Laguna pulls Yuna as tight as he can. Does his best to ignore the fact that in addition to the vicious fucking cold and the Cie'th that dive inches from his face, whatever slimy shit that lives in this river is now squirming right up against his skin.

Hyne, he hates slimy shit. Scales and mucous and fins and stuff like that really aren't his shot of whiskey. And he'd be more creeped out by it, honestly, except the riptide keeps yanking him back into the freezing drink; keeps cheese-grating him over stones that jut up at all angles.

It gets harder to breathe. The river strangles him, and the surface seems to get farther and farther away. Time underwater starts outlasting time near the air, and the oxygen he manages to gulp down before the waves pile-drive his face back under doesn't do much.

_Too bad. _He likes breathing. He thinks he's going to keep on trying to do it anyway. Even though his open mouth seems to be sucking up nothing but water. Even though he's getting dizzier and dizzier, and threatening numbness is chewing up his legs.

Burning, Laguna's lungs scream want; threaten to tear all the way through his chest in search of air. Hazy, he throws everything he's got into controlling his reflexes. He will not inhale the river in pure panic. _Do **not** inhale the river in pure panic…_

Lightheaded, spots start spinning in his eyes, and Laguna's pretty sure the only thing that's keeping him conscious is Yuna. Yuna, whose heartbeat's thready but there, beating on his chest. Yuna, whose fingers curl on his back and tell him she's still alive so he's got to stay that way too.

_Stay with me, darlin'. _The thought rolls around in his mind, slow and sludgy. _You got a life to live._

By the time Launga's shoulder crunches on something like land, there are exactly zero thoughts in his pounding head other than: _"oxygen, good" _and maybe "_Hyne, fucking fuck, Hyne." _The universe dawns on him one thing at a time. Demons in the distance, scream-crying. Bloody huge gash on his leg that Vaan's Regen ring's not doing much to close. Girl in his arms – _wait, no, this one's important – _girl in his arms, not really moving.

"Yuna!" Suddenly alert, Laguna scrambles to his knees, shakes her. He doesn't know if that'll do anything but it's all he can think of, so there it is. _"Yuna!"_

Coughing, Yuna stirs weakly and water spills from her split lips. "…Laguna?" she says, eyes flickering open. Her fingers flatten against the stone as she tries to push herself up. "…what…where…the others…"

"Not sure, kiddo." Ignoring the lancing pain in his leg, Laguna grimaces, pulls them both to their feet. His eyesight's still half-drowned, but when he looks back to where he thinks the boat used to be, he sees _nothing, _clear as day.

Well, not "nothing", exactly. _No boat. No friends_. But there are demons, and they're in some kind of feeding frenzy so dense it's like the sky's gone frothing mad. And there's the river of course. Dark and killing and deep.

_There's no chance. _Laguna's gut feels like lead weight. It's pure desolation out there: a fossilized landscape of salt and monsters and blinding spray. _No chance they survived that…_

"Laguna." Yuna's voice shakes like she does, and the hand that finds his is so cold it breaks his heart. "Oh, Laguna, no."

"Doesn't look good." Laguna locks up the ache because he's got to. They've got to get the fuck of here. The only stroke of luck they've had is that they seem to have cleared the Cie'th, but that won't last long. "But we can't stick around to find out." Clenching his jaw against the pain in his leg, he hisses, "We gotta move. Like, right now. Before – "

"Before _what_, mortal?" A voice grates from behind them, the sound of steel crushing steel. And while Laguna would like to have the time to follow his instincts – i.e., turn and shoot it in the face – he can't. He can't because before he's even got time to think it a wave of electricity hurtles into his back, seizes all his nerves at once.

_Mother of – _Laguna feels his tongue go dry and his muscles lock and thinks he hates the smell of his own skin burning.

"Surely you do not dare to think it?" The voice drones on. Laguna can hear it over the low frequency buzz in his ears. "Surely you do not feel the will of Fell Lindzei, and dream of escape?"

When the spell pulls its fangs out of Laguna's brain, all his thoughts are mush. Dizzy and sick, he's barely got the presence of mind to roll upright and hold his arm out over Yuna. "What," he breathes. "What the – "

"_Laguna._" Despite his protectiveness, Yuna's the one who seems to have recovered first. Soaking wet, her face is bruised and swollen, but her eyes as clear as ever. Wide and bright, they see what he doesn't. "Laguna, look – " her voice strains up, pitchy and panicked" – no. No. Oh._ Move. Watch out._"

Acting instinctively, Laguna grabs her, barrel rolls them sideways a hair-trigger second before another blast of force carves a furrow in the granite. "_Pray_." Laguna can't find the voice in the mushrooming dust. "Pray She shows you mercy. Pray she forgives you your sins."

Pain's everywhere. From his burns to his stressed out lungs to his ribboned skin, it's the only thing in Laguna's head other than the thought that whatever's trying to kill them sure sounds fucking pretentious. _Monsters that talk. _Why is he always stuck with the monsters that fucking talk?

Rolling to a stop, Laguna spits rocks and blood from his mouth. Pushing Yuna behind him again, he curls his lip, turns, finally gets good long look at the latest sack of shit that wants them dead.

Sucking a bloody breath in through his teeth, Lagunq regrets it. Immediately. "Great," he mutters.

It's like nothing he's ever seen, this thing. For one, it's enormous. Big as the broad side of a building, it seems almost human-shaped at first glance. _Arms and legs: something that looks like a face if you squint. _But it's all so damn wrong. Made of exposed muscle and bone and sparking circuitry, its arms end in arterial polyps that bleed oil and puss. A peeled, stretched-out head sits on a neck that's about a foot too long, and even though it's got a wet, blue-black tongue, it's missing its lower jaw. Laguna'd be confused about how it talks, but a bunch of human faces strain in and out of melting chest muscles, and they take turns spouting BS.

"Pray."

An inside-out looking thing, everything about it's sharp and crazed and rusted. And how it sees out of dull black eyes that spill over with veins is anybody's guess.

"Pray, infidels. _Pray._"

"Sweet Hyne." Laguna whispers. He really can't remember the last time just looking at something made him gag. Though the stink of fried blood that comes off it in waves doesn't help either. "Sweet Hyne's blind mother."

"You dare utter the name of a false god to me?" Enraged, the thing seems to get larger with every word, and when it whips its overlong arms into the riverbed, the stone scream as it shatters. "I am Barthandelus the fal'Cie, and you will repent of your blasphemy." Its eyes swell, squirm. "You will repent or die screaming."

The only thought Laguna has as Yuna yanks his jacket, warns him just in time to shove them both out of the way of another searing round of magic, is: _yep, definitely pretentious._

"Now, now." Despite the salt-and-blood-seasoned puke he tastes bubbling in the back of his throat, Laguna manages a chuckle. He's not sure the waterlogged gun strapped his back will fire or not, so he settles for one of the grenades at his belt_. _"Don't take it personally there, ugly." Yanking the pin out, he grins. "I'm really not all that religious."

At the point blank range they're at, the force of the grenade exploding jars every bone in Laguna's body. And while it's enough to blow squalid chunks off the thing's face, it barely buys them any time at all. Just enough to get up, starting running the hell away.

Not that he's got any clear idea where to go, _but hey_. He figures he'll start with "that way"_, _and busk it from there.

Cold sweat seals Yuna's palm to his. "Hey, babe," he calls back, running them in zig-zag patterns along the riverbed, trying his best to dodge them between the deadly water on one side and the equally deadly rain of magic on the other. "You got any idea what that thing is? Or better yet – " He spares a quick glance back at the still-expanding hell-pope-thing behind them, " – how to kill it?"

"I don't know." Yuna sends cool Curaga over Laguna's skin as she answers, followed by the pure, unadulterated bliss of Shell and Protect. Full strength now, they plug the slobbering wound in his leg with soft, new skin and armor his battered bones. "It's…it's from Lightning's world, I think."

"Great. _Peachy._" Laguna just keeps running. Explosions rip the air by his ears, and the heat of them slices through the Shell to bubble his neck with burns. "You know what," he mumbles, crushing Yuna's hand, almost dragging her now, "I'm beginning to think that place is pretty damn screwed."

"You cannot flee, mortals." Barthandelus' voice reminds him of a sledgehammer. A really big, angry sledgehammer. "You are dead already."

"Really?" Clouds of biting spray and stone rake his face, but Laguna still can't resist the retort. "Don't really feel all that – uk – _ah – _"

The knifing electricity that short-circuits all Laguna's nerves at once is all the answer Barthandelus needs to give. Though it dawns on Laguna as pain splits his mind apart that maybe he should stop tempting fate.

Someone shrieks. Laguna's pretty sure it's him until he figures out he's basically choking on his own tongue.

"No!" _Yuna. _"_Oh, no._"

The desperation in her cry is enough to remind him he's got to toss her forward. That he's smashing headlong into raw granite, and he'll be damned if she's coming with him.

"Laguna." He almost loses her voice in the resounding crack of his skull on the ground. "No. _Please._"

He doesn't want to hear the heartbreak in her voice. It's too much right now, on top of all the dying he's probably doing.

Could be Laguna answers with some kind of "ngh." Probably not though, because he feels blood pour back through his sinuses and pool in his throat.

A dim part of his mind registers the crashing jolt in the ground as the thing vaults over his head and lands in a bloody wet mess in front him. Twitching, crawling hunks of it smear the ground, but that's not what Laguna's looking at. What he's look at is Yuna, visible through the columns of Barthandelus' hulking legs.

Green-blue-beautiful in the darkness, her eyes are stars he wishes on. _Go. Go, go, go. _

"Get away from him!" She's still screaming. _What a sweet girl._ He doesn't understand why she's not running. She really should be running. _Go. _"Leave him alone!"

"Go," Laguna barely manages the order at a whisper. He looks up and notices his hair's burnt and bloody. His head feels loose on his spine. "Yuna…just…_Go."_

The world's hazy and hyperbolic with shock and blood, but he thinks he sees the panic drain from her pretty face. A scrap of fabric, turning then fleeing down the shore.

_Good. Good. _

"Fool. Vermin. Blasphemer_._" Laguna watches six half-formed faces speak in one, choral voice that's edged with mad laughter. And very cackling word burns, shears flesh off his bones. "Fell Lindzei comes." All his muscles seize, and he can feel burns blistering through Yuna's spells. "Do you not understand? Fell Lindzei comes."

_No. _He doesn't. He really fucking doesn't. But that doesn't matter so much, since he's concentrating mostly on not biting through his tongue; on making sure he draws all this thing's attention until Yuna gets away.

"Did you truly think you could stand against the will of the gods?" The monster bears down on him, relentless. Some mouths speak; others just laugh that agonizing, brittle laughter, and Laguna can feel a Holding force levitate him off the ground. It grabs him, clutches at his arms and legs and just _pulls. _"Do you think you can save who Lindzei dooms?"

"Ngh," Laguna doesn't recognize the sound that falls out of his mouth. His feet dangle, kick at empty air. "_Ngh…"_

"Such breeding, worthless creatures, mortals," the faces keep on laughing, mad and sharp, and Laguna's neck strains as his vertebrae start separating. "What drop of justice have you ever done each other? What have you accomplished but war and cruelty; misery and clannishness and hate?" As his body stretches taut, Laguna wonders if it's possible for a person to die in slow motion. "Lindzei is merciful that She seeks your death only." _Yes. Yes it is. _"You should be scoured from all worlds"

_Sorry,_ is the only word Laguna can force his brain over. But since his whole perception's a sludge of blood and screaming, he can't tell who he's apologizing to. Might be Light, who's probably dead already. But it could be to Yuna. Or to Raine and Squall and Ellone. His family. His family he just misses so damn much, even though he never even got to know them…

_That possible? _Laguna's ears overflow with that sickening, searing laugh… _To miss something you've never known? _Maybe. Laguna sure feels like he can.

_Sorry. _The pain's so blinding white he can't see anymore. _Just wanted to help. Esthar. Light. Yuna. Sorry. Just wanted to help...Shoulda done more…_

"Bless Her name." Barthandelus' words barrel past the sensation of Laguna's softly dying nerves. The laughing stops though, and he feels the absence of agony like a cool rain. "Bless. Her. _Name._"

Busted up as he is, there's no reason on any earth Laguna should be able to force his bloody lips into a smile right now, let alone squeeze words out of it. But then again, he guesses he's always been pretty good at surprising himself. Plus, if this thing's slowing up the torture just so he can respond to some blowhard command, he feels like he's got to give a good one.

Really, it's the last he can do.

"…Okay buddy" Weakly lifting his head, Laguna laughs, feels his breath flutter against a crushed mouth. He winks. "_Fuck you_ count as a blessing?"

Even through the film of blood in his eyes, Laguna can see that doesn't go over too well. All the muscles Barthandelus is made of seem to convulse. "Die." Drooling rust and blood, all the mouths squeal at the same time. "_Die_."

"No." An answer Laguna doesn't utter breaks through the resurgent pain. And it's cold and level and serene. "I don't think so."

The Cure spells that course through Laguna's busted body are the strongest he's ever felt. Swift and cool, they knit his lacerations, soothe his burns, cushion the fall when Barthandelus' Hold breaks. But even though he's suddenly got reflex and sensation back, when he looks up at what's happening – the person who just saved him – he actually feels worse.

It's Yuna. And she's facing that thing alone.

"You are no l'Cie." Turning away from him, Barthadelus seems almost amused. "Petty creature of white magic. You command no Eidolans here."

Using newfound strength to drag himself to his knees, Laguna frantically shrugs his MP-7 off his shoulder. Pulling back the safety, he's got no idea if this'll work – the salt's probably locked the gear – but if the junctions all those Esthari mages lay on it are really back, if that Lufenian dick's "veil" is really off, then maybe, _maybe_…

"_Yuna_!" he screams.

Laguna's not thinking, he's firing. He's losing himself in carbon, hate and glorious recoil because he sees that it's not working. Hot lead's got nothing on Barthandelus, and now all the magic that was turned on him a second ago is crushing into Yuna. The choking Hold and the burning Thunder and that horrible Thanatosian laugh…

A mix of gunpowder and white-out grade salt spray gum up Laguna's vision. He can't see anything straight, and to be frank, he doesn't want to. He won't be able to stand it. Watching her suffer and die without that guy she loves…the way that Raine did, without him, because he screwed it all up somehow.

Terror grips Laguna's newly-healed stomach when the muzzle starts clicking blanks. The smoke clears, and he waits. Waits to see her pretty face screaming, or worse, already slack –

_Except no. Maybe not. _When the smoke twists out of his line of sight, what Laguna sees is the polar reverse of suffering. Hovering in the same maelstrom of spells that nearly gutted him, she's shimmering with Protect and Shell and Reflect and still as the axis of anything that spins.

Hands pressed in prayer over her breast, she stands against braided whips of salt and darkness with a kind of wild grace. Her skin bleeds and burns, abraded, but she takes it all in silence. Like a High Summoner's daughter, she would say – _or like a High Summoner_ – a woman who really could rid the world of Sin.

Laguna holds his breath in awe. He doesn't know what else to do.

"You're right," Yuna says eventually. "I don't command anything." Pulling her hands apart, the magic follows her arms like clouds follow the sky. She smiles. "But I can ask. And this river runs from Spira to the Fey. Who knows what might answer?"

"Nothing that can save you from Lindzei's wrath." Barthandelus' cackling has gone mad, and it's whirling its deformed arms wildly, without thought or aim. Reacting without thinking, grabs his last grenate, blows the polyped end of one of them off before it can crack Yuna into the river. "Call what you wish. It cannot save you."

"Maybe," Yuna replies. Her face is going wan and yellow, and Laguna can tell whatever it is she's casting is taking all the mana she's got. "We'll see."

It comes, as Laguna supposes it must, from the river. In a great twist of scales, and a roar so wide open and heavy it parts the tide. Golden-eyed and vengeful, whatever it is Yuna's summoned is like something pulled straight out of a legend. A serpent of some kind, its skin is like living silver, and it's as majestic and terrifying as any weapon caught in the act of killing.

Wild with fury and riding waves of black water, it launches itself towards Barthandelus. Coils a tail long enough to circle oceans over and over around it: crushing, squeezing – an attack of such unrestrained violence, Laguna can only watch, slack-jawed, his machine gun silent at his side.

Entwined, they tear at each other. Massive and hideous and loud as bridges collapsing, Laguna almost can't tell what part of the combined monster that cracks the earth in front of them is hell-beast and what part is water-beast. And honestly, he really doesn't care. So long as he and Yuna can get out of here, these things can eat each other for all eternity.

"Holy ever-loving Hyne." Racing, Laguna manages to sprint up to Yuna to steady her before she falls. "Who – _what_ – is that?"

"Thank you, Leviathan, Lord of All Waters." Barely able to keep her feet, Yuna's not talking to Laguna at all. "Thank you, father."

Shielding Yuna with his body, Laguna doesn't bother to try and figure out what on earth she just said. He just turns to watch as the creatures seem to expand and and rear backwards to the river's edge; as bits of ragged muscle and corroded copper turn to red mist over the water.

He should run. _They _should run. But Laguna can't find an exit. There's too much going on. Inhuman shrieking and roaring. Magic that burns the freezing air as it breaks rocks off a miles-high ceiling. The ground just shaking, rumbling, cutting off any path they could possibly take.

Faced with the option of getting impaled by a either a stray bolt of magic or a hunk of collapsing cavern, Laguna the most sensible thing can think of. He just ducks. Throws his whole battered body over Yuna and holds the hell on. He barely even notices when the two of them finally fall back into the river. When the heaving earth goes silent as the water takes the brunt of the impact, closes over them with the alien stillness of melting glass.

_It shouldn't happen like that_. Laguna notices right away. Weight like that, river depth like that, there should be a tidal surge, but whatever. He doesn't question it. He's seen too much magic – too much nonsense shit that couldn't happen in real life – for him to be surprised by anything anymore.

_Lord of All Waters._ Laguna tests the name in his exhausted mind. He knows absolutely nothing about the thing, but it seems to fit alright. _One hell of a GF._ Eidolan. Aeon. Whatever. Doesn't matter.

"Yuna," he whispers to her hair. "Yuna, you okay? This over?"

"I don't know." Laguna feels her arms tighten around his neck. Her voice is calm but she's trembling. "I don't know. It's so horrible. I don't think it's dead yet – _I don't_…"

The unnatural stillness is an interruption in itself. And there's a second, right after Yuna's voice trails off where Laguna lets himself think that maybe they've gotten someplace close to safe. He uses it to try and come up with something comforting. Something witty, maybe, he's sort of good at witty. But as seconds tend to do, it passes, and the momentary peace that's settled on the river shatters. Breaks into a thousand pieces by scything blades of magic and a horrible, squawking laugh.

Leviathan and Barthandelus don't reemerge, but the waves Laguna was expecting earlier do. And iron-colored and heavy as stone, there's nowhere to run from them, nowhere to hide.

There's no time. To act smart or anything. Come up with a last ditch plan. All Laguna can do is get up, grab Yuna's hand and try to scramble to higher ground. Feet pounding against hardscrabble, Laguna gets just far enough away from the river for him to grab hold of a gnarled chunk of granite and hold on.

It doesn't work out so well. The water's right behind them, unstoppable and crazed.

Usually, there's something about watching the inevitable happen that always makes Laguna disconnect. He guesses it's all that soldiering, but when you see a gun pointed at someone's head, and it fires, it's hard to be shocked when the guy falls down dead. And so, when the river hits them, when the current grabs Yuna away, he's not necessarily expecting it'll tear his heart out of his chest. But it does.

"Yuna!" He doesn't know how he manages to scream her name. The water's forcing him under already, pulling them further and further apart. He loses her. _She's gone._ Just like that.

"Yuna!" He's fighting just to keep his head above water, but he's still screaming as if sheer panic could bring her back. "_No._"

She's already too far gone by the time the waves throw him back against the shore. A speck of blue and white in the distance, all he can do is widen his eyes as the unforgiving river steals her, breaks her once against a sharpened stone and carries her bonelessly away.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Sorry about the cliffhanger. I really promise I'm not going to leave it hanging for more than 3-5 days.  
><strong>AN(2)****:** I wish SE would take their female mages more seriously. If it weren't for X-2 and the Aerith kebab, I'd have taken these ladies to much crazier levels of inherent power.


	18. CXIII2: Dead Men Dancing

Door of Souls, Chapter XIII-2: Dead Men Dancing 

**Warning: **This section of the chapter is actually more violent than the last. Also, I reiterate that these are adult characterizations. Unbeta'd.  
><strong>Thank you: <strong>For your patience, support, kindness. Haven't been able to respond to all reviews yet, but I cannot tell you how much they mean to me. They help me wrestle the beast.  
><strong>Sorry:<strong> I said 3-5. I think I probably should have said 5-7.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>There are some lengthy explanatory notes at the end in respect of canon divergence and thematics. They're responses to PMs I've been getting, but I generalized them and put them here so if there's general interest, anyone can read them.

* * *

><p>"<em>You ask 'Are you a man or a demon?' Neither, I say. I have woken up, and the rest of you are sleeping, and that is the only difference between us."<em>

― Aravind Adiga_, The White Tiger_

* * *

><p>Lightning can't feel her legs.<p>

Because the numbness is nestled in about sixty different shades of pain, the knowledge comes to her slowly, dripping with vertigo and vomit and bloody salt water. In an absence of pain that is soft and nonsensical, like waking up from a dream about drowning.

The mouth she coughs out of feels broken. She's breathing out of torn lips.

_What?_

Her eyes sting with salt when she opens them, and all her thoughts are so light they seem to float out of her head. They spin and they spin, and when she tries to focus them, they only come apart, drifty and thin.

Something feels wrong. There's nausea and queasiness and a weird sense her heart's pulsing in her ears. Is she bleeding? She can't figure out if she's bleeding. Maybe she's already bled out.

Water drops from her nostrils and her chin; laps her stomach; soaks through her clothes. The air's too cold, too dark. She lifts bleeding fingertips to her brow. When did it get like this? Is she sitting in a bathtub? She's confused.

_It's okay, Serah. _Lightning keeps falling into the past because it's warm there. She has a flashlight and her baby sister and everything's fine, just fine. _I'm telling you, there aren't any monsters under the bed. And if there are, I'll get them. They're all afraid of me, anyway._

"Serah?" Nothing answers her. Nothing answers her because nothing's there. Nothing's ever there because she pushes it away; because it gets in her way; because she's got a job to do; because doesn't need it, it's all just collateral damage…_"…Serah?_"

The wordless world that still doesn't answer her is gorgeous and deranged. Trying to decipher it, Lightning lolls her head back against the stone she's sitting against and sees that the sky's sprouted black wings. The cavern is a ballroom screams dance in. There's salt, salt everywhere. Glittering, it skates the bottomless river; frosts her blue-and-bleeding hands. In lashes, it whips the sky above her; it traces the shape of the wind.

Smiling, Lightning decides maybe she doesn't need her legs. They only weigh her down. Without them, maybe she could fly.

_Like Kain. _She likes that about him. He carries everything he's done on his shoulders, but he never has to stay on the ground.

Hazy-headed, Lightning swallows, tastes metal and mucous and grit. If things were different, she'd make him take her up there with him. Fuck gravity. Fuck yesterday. Fuck tomorrow. There'd be hands on her waist and teeth grazing her throat and nothing in her way but open sky.

_If things were different._ Everything sparkles, but she's so damn cold. Her weapon feels strange between her shoulder blades.

_If things were different we wouldn't be here. _Kain's not here. No-one is. And where the hell are her legs?

_If things were different I'd just get up, get up and go and – No._ _No, no, no. _

Struggling to move, Lightning refuses to follow her spiraling thoughts down the drain. She knows something something's seriously wrong. She just needs to find a way to think clearly. Sort it out. Remember.

She blinks, spits out bloody chunks of her own lips. Her swollen mind grabs at the recent past and tries to piece something together but it's like trying to glue up ice. Everything melts when she touches it. There were hands, and she couldn't hold on to them. Magic – _neon-green_ – lewd as lights in a slum. Freezing water she was swimming through: kicking, kicking until –

_Shit. _

Lightning's focus narrows and contracts: a pupil under surgical lights. She looks down. She looks down, and all of a sudden everything makes sense, and she's found her legs again.

Limp and white, they drift in the shallows of the river. They're bleeding, and the seaweed that's strangling them is brown and thick and scaly as any snake, but she can't feel any of it because her legs aren't the problem. The problem's her spine.

It's twisted, broken. _She's _twisted, broken.

Wind howls. Biting spray chews her face. There's blood and other shit in the water she doesn't want to think about. Lightning stifles a scream.

It's not possible she's paralyzed. If she's paralyzed, she's dead. And she can't die. Not here. Not now. She's got too much to do. Too much to lose. _And the others…_

"Shit," Lightning swears because she needs a word to nail her slippery thoughts one place. She needs to get out of this river. Even if she can't feel it, she's sure hypothermia's setting in, and that'll kill her faster than almost anything else. No matter what, she's got to get to shore. After that she can think about getting her friends, regrouping, getting out.

_They've got to be alive. _She won't let herself believe they're dead. Because if she's alive and they're not, Lightning swears that legs or not, she will kill the living shit out of whatever's responsible for it.

The thought is stupid, hysterical. As if reading it, the careening paths of the Cie'th degrade, go manic, and the demented beat of countless wings fills Lightning's ears like laughter.

Shivering, Lightning blanks her mind – moves as she always does, on instinct. Disgust won't help her, and neither will fear, so she just groans, lowers her elbows into the two-foot shallows and decides that if she can't walk out of this river she'll fucking crawl.

"Come on…" Submerged to her armpits, Lightning feels cold water unwind all her coherent thoughts. "Come on_…_" Savage, it shoves its fingers into her mouth, plucks the nerves in her teeth. "Gotta move, gotta move, gotta _move."_

And she tries. Odin's grace, she tries. Gashing her palms on razored stones, Lightning strains to drag herself forward. No progress. All she does is make herself bleed. Digging her elbows into loose granite, she leverages her weight against the current. Nothing. Predatory waves grab her useless hips, slap her hard across the face. Gritting her teeth so hard her temples pulse, she holds her breath, does her best to swim, but her arms are jelly. They're nowhere near strong enough to fight the tide.

Explosively, Lightning comes up for air. Realizes for all her efforts, she's barely moved a foot. "Damn it." Trembling, she balls a bleeding fist and the pain is warm and bright and clean. A compass point in a featureless landscape of cold and numbness and grey. "Damn it, _why…_"

Lightning doesn't exactly know when she figures out she's being watched. She's dizzy as hell, and her entire perception's a deranged blur of wind and salt. But still, she can't shake her training. And even as she's getting pounded by the river, she feels it. The weight of eyes on her back: the prick of a scavenging gaze as it picks her apart.

Keeping her head studiously down, Lightning swallows the curse in her throat. She's utterly fucked. Her only real hope had been that the Cie'th would assume her busted body was already dead. _But if not_...If they've caught on…

Lightning doesn't think. She realizes there's only a fifty-fifty chance Enkindler will still fire, and even longer odds she'll actually be able to roll into a position to fire, but since there aren't alternatives on the table she just runs with what she's got. Grabbing her gun with ruined fingers, she squeezes down on the trigger, _hard._

"_Die,_" she spits, swearing at empty black, firing at empty black. The cuts in her hand smile wider, fill up with a gummy paste of powder and salt water. It burns like fuck. She doesn't care. _"_Whatever you are, _die._"

High on fresh pain and adrenaline, it takes Lightning until the smoke clears to realize that that she's fired a full cartridge of ammo into nothing but pulsing, scabrous sky. It doesn't take her that long to figure out that someone's whispering something to her, though. And the sound is low and unhinged: the insect chatter of something that's closer to moth than man.

It's round, the sound. It echoes through the massive chamber until it doubles back and meets itself, amplified. She thinks it comes from the mass of Cie'th she just shot up, but it's like trying to find a voice in a chorus, the cry of one lost child in a city being purged.

"Where are you?" Lightning's words are knots bound with fear. "Where _are_ you?"

No answer. Just that same chatter. It falls from the cloud of demons like rain.

"_Bastard._" The terror's colder than the water. It seeps into her skin, opens her pores. "Answer me."

"_So angry Lightning Farron."_ The swarm of Cie'th above her contracts and expands, breathing. A single creature made of dead shit and diamonds; a single voice that curls its spoiled lips around her name. "_So angry and ruthless and cruel; killer of gods and men and children and men and she who tears stars from the sky."_

Snakes of panic twist brainlessly in the parts of Lightning's gut she can still feel. But she doesn't put her gun down. She can't put her gun down. It's the only thing she has. The only thing she's ever had.

She shakes another cartridge in place. She swallows. She waits.

"_Is this the Last Undying?_" The black cloud wings in closer, and the smell makes Lightning want to retch into the battering waves. _"She for whom Pulse deceives Lindzei? For whom arks were built, and weapons forged and cities laid waste in fire?_"

Tasting puke in the back of her throat, Lightning can't figure out where to aim so she just goes with "wide". Again and again and again, she fires, but the Cie'th just keep coming – a faceless, heaving storm of skin.

Carnage and sewage-tasting membrane splash her face but she ignores it because she's got better things to do. _Like trying to shoot down the sky._

"_But you are broken now, are you not Lightning Farron?_" The darkness won't stop talking, no matter how much it bleeds. _"You bleed and you break and you fail." _Questioning, the voice gets louder, mocking, cruel. "_How can you rise with no spine, Lightning Farron? How will you stand with no legs?"_

"Die. Die. Die." Lightning uses her own voice like a metronome. Every repetition another pull. _Boom_ – the sound's oddly childish in her head, like she's playing toy soldiers. _Boom. Boom. Boom._ She fires straight through until the mechanism locks, until there are no more bullets to burn. "_Die._"

"_Will you squirm, Lightning Farron? On all fours Lightning Farron? Down in the dirt like a dog?" _For the first time, Lightning makes out something distinct in the swarm. Grey and stringy, it's a tendon getting knifed off a bone. She can see the tissue stretch. _"Gods fear you but you cannot move, Lightning Farron; will you kill them all with your teeth?" _

"You want to kill me, come out and try." Salt and cold are eroding Lightning's perception, but it doesn't matter. She can almost see this monster now, a jewel-winged twist in a toxic fog. And if she can see it, she can kill it, and fuck, yes, she'll do it with her teeth if she has to. Half-frozen hands flip Enkindler to a sword. "Show your goddamn face."

"_But I have no face, Lightning Farron; no face and no tongue and no eyes and no soul."_ It dawns on Lightning as the string thing detaches from the seething pulp that she knows this piece of garbage. She's seen it before. Not just above the ferry, but a lifetime ago, in another world. _"And if I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead._" Fully visible now, the creature rises lordly above its throng of demons, eyeless and scarified and proud. _"If I wanted to kill you, I would let the Rotten Ones feed."_

"Vercingetorix? _What – _" Lightning fights for balance on her elbows, but the waves keep knocking her down. Barely able to keep a grip on her sword, fear almost chokes her. She's dead meat like this. They were barely able to take this thing down when there were six of them. Six monsters. _Six friends._ Six murderers who saved the world. "I killed you. _We _killed you…"

"_Yes, Lightning Farron, I died at your hand, Lightning Farron, but it did not hurt so much; I did not bleed." _Descending near her with weightless grace, Vercingetorix's spindled feet barely touch the water. _"Though what is death to Undying? It only takes your mind." _Pirouetting, he bows before launching himself back through the air. "_And your mind is not what you will need." _

"If you're not going to kill me – " Fighting through the frozen blackness that's descending on her mind Lightning speaks through chattering teeth " – You mind telling me what you want?"

"_I want what you want, Lightning Farron."_ From this angle, Lightning thinks Vercingetorix looks like something out of an ancient painting of hell: all high-contrast blacks and yellows; a mad, reanimated victim of war, pestilence, death. "_What Caius Ballad wants and Hallowed Pulse wants, although he too fears the hot thing. Fears the arks he made you, fears the end that you will cause." _

"What?" Lightning shivers. As furious as she is, the cold's corroding her. Enkindler's ice in her hands. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"_A new world, Lightning Farron –" _There's such conviction in Vercingetorix's voice, Lightning almost forgets that she should be trying to kill him, that there's nothing he has to say that she wants to hear_ " – which you will bring with Caius Ballad as you were always meant to do. The new world Fool Etro sees not and Sage Lindzei wants not, but will come like the dawn all the same." _

"That doesn't make any sense." Lightning can barely feel her lips as they move. Without adrenaline push her, she's fading fast. The river's taking her away. "Why the hell would Pulse – "

"_Pulse fears it but accepts it," _Vercingetorix wheedles,_ "He who loves only that which evolves; He whose fal'Cie wipe Gran Pulse free of humans; He who clears away the old gods to give dominion to the new. As Bhunivelze kills his mother, so too is he undone. Parents kill their children Lightning Farron; but children kill them back…"_

"Psychotic," Lightning mutters, still trying but failing to push herself up on her elbows; still trying but failing to move her legs. Freezing spray scores her face, and she's so tired of all this garbage; of gods and demons and death_. _ It sickens her to her core. "You're all insane, psychotic – _"_

"_Perhaps."_ Vercingetorix summersaults in the pulsing air, and the scabs crust his mouth crack and bleed over his grin. _"But are not all prophets insane Lightning Farron? All revolutions won by the mad? We share a task we three Undying, we three in one, and the world beyond the hot thing belongs to us, to __**us**__._" The voice goes nearly manic._ "You are like us, you will join us. Don't you know it was the choice you made in the Mirror, Lightning Farron? To give yourself to us?"_

What Lightning wants to do is cut the words out of Vercingetorix's throat. Furious, she wants to deny everything that's true about biology, get up, and cut his head clear off so she never has to hear this lying BS ever again. But she can't. She can't because there is something about the jubilant way he flips and flips in the air; the way the fingers in his eyesockets extend and then curl in glee that keeps Enknindler still in her grip. That freezes a body already ransacked with injury and cold.

_The thinks he's telling the truth._ Lightning can see it the triumphant incline of his rotting chin, the way he puffs out his prolapsed chest before his worshiping throng of Cie'th._ He really believes we're the same._

"I'm nothing like you," she whispers, watching the maggots that crawl out of Vercingetorix's chest plop wetly into the river. "Nothing."

"_Raines does not see yet, but he will."_ Twisting higher, Vercingetorix beams at her. And Lightning can't help but think there's a kind of perverted hauteur about the way he darts in and out of the Cie'th. Lord of rot. King of the dead. _"You do not see yet, but you will. __**We**__ are the new gods beyond the hot thing. The world belongs to us."_

_No. _Lightning goes empty with horror. "No."

Diving towards her, Vercingetorix spirals, veering up at the last possible moment to avoid the sad attempt at a swipe Lightning makes. "_It does if you want it, Lightning Farron; it will if you dare," _he keens, radiant. _"It was what you saw in the Mirror Lightning Farron, the light in the rising star. Pulse does not understand why you are broken; why you reject Etro's gifts and make love to the dirt; but you will share our task in the end Lightning Farron; the task is ours, the world is ours, the future ours."_

Deranged water rushes in her ears as Lightning shakes her head. She honestly doesn't know. In the Mirror of Atropos, everything was grey and hazy – a universe of half-truths and contradictions, a maze of shattered glass. She thought she needed to be human, but all she really saw beyond Caius' blood-clogged river was a star. A star and a city of survivors; a distant, stupid prayer…

_That people could own their own destiny. _That somewhere past Etro's throne, people could be as free and clean as she is fucked-up and used. That if she's got to sacrifice herself for something, then it should be for a place her sister could be proud of. _Without any more monsters under the bed, ruling the world with fear._

A place she'd have liked. Where she could have her garden. Her family. Her big damn hero...

Grimacing, Lightning forces her mind through the cold. _No. Not acceptable. _She's not turning into what she hates. Freedom's the only thing she'd ever kneel to that bitch goddess for. And if she can't have it, she's not kneeling at all.

She's not kneeling. Not ever again.

"_You are Undying and we are Undying." _Vercingetorix's voice is sonorous now, resonant. And he hovers in front of her, his rotted wings beat the way that stingrays swim – with otherworldly grace. _"You are Undying and we are Undying," _he repeats,_ "and you will thank me, when Hallowed Pulse bestows his blessing; when all three of Bhunivelze's children meet again on the Last Floor."_

Lightning doesn't know where she gets the strength. She shouldn't have it. Hypothermia should have swallowed whatever injury left behind, but somehow she manages it. To whirl Enkindler so the point jams in the riverbed. To push on it with everything she has until she's half sitting in the waves again. To squeeze her eyes shut, clench her jaw, and fucking try and force…her legs…to _move. _

The pain is absolutely blinding. It grips the back of her neck; flashes burning hot in the unyielding cold; presses feral spots on the inside of her eyelids. But she keeps pushing through it. Keeps begging – Odin, fate, but mostly herself– that the nerves are pinched, not severed; that it's just swelling and she can get up one last time, eviscerate this delusional corpse before it poisons one more thing with its lies.

In the end, it's barely a movement at all. Most of the motion comes from pushing off Enkindler, from the straining, quivering muscles of her arms. But somehow, someway, there's enough in her knees to give her just that extra boost. What she needs to propel herself forward: shove Enknindler hilt-deep into the rancid hole in the center of Vercingetorix' chest.

Already dead, the flesh can only give way. Soft and moldy, black-blooded, it parts beneath her blade.

"I'd rather die," Lightning says, forcing the words past nauseating levels of pain. Below the waist, her body's back to being dead weight, but she uses all the strength left in her arms to pull herself level with the mass of stinking rot and wriggling fingers that passes for Vercingetorix's face. "I'd rather die," she spits, and blood and saliva seep into the holes in his skin, "you miserable son of a bitch."

For a second, Vercingetorix looks almost shocked. The exposed muscles in his face all tense at once, and Lightning can see how they snap at the jaw. A round bud that could be a tongue ripples the scabs on his mouth, and she's almost dumb or delirious enough to think it might be the start of a scream.

_Almost. _It obviously isn't. It's very obviously a laugh. And as if on cue, the cloud of Cie'th behind him pulses: chattering, boiling, amused.

Nonchalant, Vercingetorix wings backwards, and Lightning can't hold on. Her broken hands slip off a hilt that's soiled with red blood and black blood; with water and skin and salt.

When she falls back into the river, her head cracks sickly against a stone.

"_See, it begins already, Lightning Farron." _Vercingetorix squeals as he whirls upwards, climbing the stairs of the sky_. _Enkindler sticks proudly from his chest._ "You stand, the magic finds you; you rise, Etro's gift finds you. We are you and you are us Lightning Farron; and we will have dominion, for all the things we have lost."_

Lightning can barely speak there's so much pain. Dizzy from impact, her tongue feels swollen. She's sweating in the freezing cold. _But still_: "Go to hell," she snarls. "That had nothing to _do_ with magic."

"Maybe not." The words that seem to drift in from nowhere are airy; oddly playful; dry. "But _this _does, don't you think, Vercingetorix?"

Lightning's so wrecked with pain and anger, she's sure she's hallucinating it. Aerith's light, sharp voice on the wind; Aerith's slender, bruised frame at her side. She's half dead, after all, and her brain's about due to start playing tricks on her. She's kind of annoyed it's Aerith, of all people – she's going to bite it, she'd prefer to see her sister maybe, or her friends, – but then the Lifestream roars over her head, green and voracious and pine-smelling, and she smirks, changes her mind.

_Aerith'll do fine. _

"Well?" Gathering speed, the magic grows merciless, rips bleeding chunks from the air. "Aren't you going to answer me?" Aerith's voice floats over the symphonic hiss of demon wings. "I thought you liked to talk. You sure do it a lot."

The squealing noise Vercingetorix makes as the Lifestream corrodes him is almost the sweetest sound Lightning's ever heard; the neon fireworks it spills over the river, almost the sweetest thing she's ever seen.

"_Do not think there is another way for her flower girl, creature of flowers and lies."_ Twisting out of the grip of the magic, Vercingetorix preens before fading back into his demons where he belongs. "_You cannot stop it and Pulse cannot stop it; nor Etro nor Lindzei Herself. You were right to sell her to us; you were right to give her back." _

"Oh Vercy, you always were insane." When Aerith kneels beside her, Lightning can see how pale her face is beneath the green, how much it's costing her to keep this up at full bore – but she keeps going anyway. "Nobody's giving _anything_ to you." Flicking her wrist, Aerith twists the Lifestream tighter, strangles the dark almost lovingly, until it screams. Her eyes sear. "And Lightning's not going anywhere she doesn't want."

Lightning's frozen, dizzy mind expects an explosion. Magic in her world is almost always announced by explosion; but then again, the magic in her world's weaponized, an instrument of war. She keeps on forgetting that's not how the Lifestream works. That it's alive, and that it does what Aerith asks it to because despite all her mistakes – every damn lie she's ever told – she's the last of her kind. The last person who'll ever speak to it in a language it understands. _It must be lonely_, she thinks, nauseous and lightheaded. _Coiling around the Planet, all by itself._

So she guesses she shouldn't be so surprised at how it sunders the sky like the river splits the shore. And that also like the river, it prefers to kill by drowning.

Everything turns to frantic green, and Lightning has to shield her gaze. But while she saves her eyes from the light, she can't plug her ears from the sound. Vercingetorix laughing, even as the atmosphere implodes and sucks him away. Vercingetorix squealing, ecstatic, more convinced than ever that he's right.

"_We are you and you are us, Lightning Farron."_ His voice is fading now, but the words stay behind. "You_ and we will stand with no spine; you and we and we will rise with no legs; we will rise and rise and revenge."_

When Lightning lowers her arm, Aerith's drawn and battered face is the first thing she sees. "Aerith," she mutters, teeth chattering. "Where…the others…how –"

"Save your strength, Lightning." Soaked straight through, Aerith's so pale she looks see-through. _Like a ghost._ "I washed up over there." Words shaking with her body, she seems frail and uncertain. As strangely weak now as she was invincible a second ago. "There was this huge wave." She shakes her head, hair stringy and dark on a ravaged face. "I don't know what happened…and your _back_ – I've got to – "

"No." It's not easy for Lightning to keep her eyes front; to stop them from rolling back in her head. "_No_…fine," she mumbles, lying. "Gotta find – "

Lightning cuts herself off when she sees it, what's been hiding behind the cloud of Cie'th this whole time. When she and Aerith both hear it, ominous over the roaring tide. The shimmer of a teleportation spell. _Shit._The clink of molded steel. _Shit. Shit. _A man on the other side of the river, cutting a path through demons to fight his own reflection.

A thing that almost killed him once already. That threw him into a bottomless fall while she just stood there and watched.

Aerith whispers it first. "Kain."

Still paralyzed, Lightning freezes anyway. And although Aerith's still muttering, saying something about swelling and pinched nerves and bleeding, it's her own voice she hears.

"_Nothing's changed here._" It echoes, another thing she said because it was easy. Easier than talking or thinking about it – the perfectly wrong way they fit together, her own damn choice, goodbye. _Easier than admitting that it's true._ Absolutely everything's changed.

Lightning doesn't even bother to hide the panic in her voice. "Aerith –

"I know." Aerith's eyes are wide with sympathy, but she's shaking her head. "But I've got to heal you first." Spells overflow in her hands, and she's swatting Lightning's arms away without even thinking. "We're not losing him again. We're not losing anybody else. You've got to trust me_._"

"Trust _you_?" Lightning snaps, still struggling. The world's losing its edges, but she grabs her anger and holds on. "I'm not your toy, Gainsborough. You sold me upriver once. You're not healing me so you can do it – "

" – And I was _wrong_, okay?" Aerith interrupts sharply. Rushing waves surge up over her face, wash the salt away. "I meant what I said, Lightning. We not giving you up. You're not going anywhere you don't want. But we can't help him if you're dead, and you're on your way there." Pausing, she grabs Lightning's hand and squeezes, hard. "Look, I haven't said it yet, and I know it's not enough, but I'm sorry." She swallows. "It wasn't an easy – we thought we had to – it's – " Stopping, she exhales before she just gives up explanation and says it again. "I'm just sorry. I'm trying to make it right, now. Please don't fight me."

Blinking, Lightning doesn't quite know what to do. Everything seems to have come off the rails so quickly. And Vercingetorix's mad words bounce around in her mind, getting louder with the wind. Maybe she made a bad choice in the Mirror. Maybe she'll end up something she hates. But she guesses it's easy to pick the wrong lane sometimes. _Easy to feel like you've got all the answers yourself_. _When you don't consider alternatives…_

Lightning wonders if the pain and regret show up in her face. Or they get lost in the fear, the flinching she's doing every time she sees him take a hit he can't block on his own. _Damn it._

"Fine." Wincing, Lightning forces her thoughts level, nods. She can wipe this slate clean. It's not that hard. Everything new's gotta start somewhere. "Fine. We do it your way. But Aerith – "

"Yes?"

The Cure spells don't come fast enough. Her legs stay dead. The stones she's clutching don't do anything but cut her deeper. "Hurry the hell up." Shuddering with cold or pain or something else, she closes her eyes before she adds, "Please."

* * *

><p>Kain Highwind is not now, nor ever has been, a man who believes much in quarter.<p>

He gives it only when honor demands. He will die before he asks it for himself. To his mind, it is cowardly at best and hypocritical at worst, and while Kain will admit to a large number of sins, he is no hypocrite.

Dripping wet and freezing, alone amongst the demons, Kain grunts as he pulls his lance in guard across his body; as he glares at the creature in the scaled armor that grins at him from behind a curtain of screeching undead. _No_, he thinks, stepping towards them. Those who are given military command have no right to complain of death by steel. Neither killing nor dying can be ordered without first understanding this, and Kain has nothing but rank contempt for those who think otherwise.

_Perhaps it is a severe position_. Kain's lance whirls out of guard and squarely into the hanging guts of whatever Cie'th is nearest. Better men by far than he have contested it. But the opinions of better men have never been able to convince him of what his own reason tells him is true. And besides, he finds justice in the symmetry; comfort in the knowledge that whatever else he fills his life with, the manner of his death is largely assured.

_By the blade._ Wracked by impact, and drenched in blood and cutting salt water, Kain is as certain of this now he was when he led Baron to its wars so long ago. If anything, here, in this destroyed place, which is ruled by illusion or madness when it is not ruled by lies, it is more so.

One of the demons before him wails, and Kain twists his lance in its throat. And though the smell of its blood is foul and reminds him too much of the bodies he and Cecil left to the flies at Mist, it does not distract him from his thoughts.

"_Is it truly so straightforward for you, my brother?"_ Cecil's odd words; Cecil's odd eyes; Cecil's odd question that was never a question, asked when he already knew the response. "_Surely there are other ways. Surely this is not the only path a knight can walk._"

_Perhaps for you, my friend, my king. _Kain feels the cold lash of wind on his back but does not shiver. The angle of his strikes reopen a sneering cut between his ribs, but he locks the grimace in his jaw. _There was never one for me._

It is a truth that Kain knows Cecil admitted easily enough in his absence. It was never his letters the falcons bore to Ordeals, after all.

And so, the fact that he is standing here, _again_, wiping blood from his eyes, _again_, staring himself down with lance in hand, _again_, barely troubles him. He will kill this creature. He will not permit it to harm his allies in a fight that is not theirs. And if it costs him his life, that is what it costs.

Kain cannot say he is overly concerned.

"Don't look so vexed." Above the boom and crash of the river, the thing calls to him in his own voice. "I know you didn't think me actually slain."

Kain has nothing to say. The pulse of his thoughts is all. _No quarter._

Not for this thing. Not for him.

"Surely, you've not lost your good humor?" The taunt is old, but it does not cut less deeply for that. The thing smirks, folds its arms, and Kain is struck by how the scales seem decayed; more death in a place that throbs with it. "Your life's been jest, has it not? Baron's poor, heartbroken dragoon." It offers a stately flourish of its spear arm. "The great tragedy of the court."

Demon creatures darken the space in front of him, impede his path, but Kain hardly blinks at them. Ignoring words, caution, judgment, he kills them surgically, severing rotting head from rotting neck without regard for the strings of flesh that mar his blade; without turning his eyes from their target nor his mind from its track.

_No quarter._

In cutting a path towards himself, Kain tries not to think of the joy he always takes in killing this thing. The pure, giddy malice of it. Using the butt of his lance, he crushes the skull of a Cie'th that lands before him with the same categorical ruthlessness he crushes the longing – the raw and boyish hope that corrodes his composure, this fight as every fight before.

That he, like Cecil, might vanquish the shadows that lurk in the mirror.

That he, like Cecil, might yet prove himself worthy of returning to the city of his birth, to the cloud-crowned towers of Baron castle as they stretch over his home.

"Or do you play at honor?" The thing continues to taunt. Laconically, it shrugs its lance from its shoulder, and the bright red fabric of the guige is an open wound against the grey. "Pity your whore is broken. Though perhaps she will be more pliant this way."

Forcing himself not to sneer, Kain grits his teeth, kicks in the spongy belly of a Cie'th that is stuck on his lance then shakes the string of entrails from his boot. He will break this creature's bones for those words, but still, she is the last thing he can think of right now. If he thinks on her, he must think on her dying, and that is an intolerable result. Not here. Not this way. Not before she has completed the irrational task she has set herself. Not before he has found something to offer her in return for what she has leant him.

Her expert fingers. Her legs locked around his waist. Her lack of condescension. The soft-seeming eyes she rests on him when she thinks he is not looking; which he sometimes allows himself to believe actually recognize what they see.

If she forgives him it is light. Unweighted by cloying pity or excuse, Kain finds it easy enough to bear.

He appreciates it. All of it. More, perhaps, than he has appreciated something in some time. And while she infuriates him with her pride, her stubbornness, her limitless resistance to reason, he will never cease being grateful to her, for that.

Even if it did mean nothing to her, which is possible. _More than possible._ Curling his lip, Kain ducks an lurching blow: rolls low enough to reset his balance before he springs back to drive the point up his weapon up through a demon jaw. It does not change the fact it was not meaningless to him.

_But that is neither here nor there_. Kain's distraction twists in him like rage or hate or lust, and he throws the force of it into a pattern of bloody strikes that turns his arms into ropes of burning strain; the brainless things before him into shredded flesh. He has already admitted that he wants her very badly in all the ways he should not, for his benefit or hers. When he should be as indifferent to her as he has been to Rosa, who once he loved with such force it tore him in two. To Cecil, his King and liege-lord; the greatest and least of his friends.

To all those who have cared for him more and better and longer. Those he left behind so he could destroy the thing in front of him. The creature that mocks his father's armor; that mocks _him_ – the wish he once had to be better, different, more.

Kain sneers and tastes sweat and rotted flesh and the blood of the things he's killed. _It was a childish wish_, he supposes, _to seek forgiveness from a haunted mirror_. Though he will try and face the consequences of it as a man.

By the time he reaches himself, Kain finds the squelch of dying flesh beneath his boot to be almost too loud. The haft of his lance almost too much a part of his hand. Things seem to move in slow motion. He yearns to kill this thing, now. It is almost everything he wants. It is almost everything he needs.

_Not quite._

Kain draws in a deep breath. Above and behind him, the cries of demons rise in uncontrolled crescendo. In front of him, he sees his armor smirk, bow low, from the hip and despite everything, he cannot help but think this is some vicious farce. A satire of redemption played on a stage crowded by the dead, or otherwise, by the insane. It would revolt him, if it did not seem so fitting.

"Good Sir Knight." As it speaks, Kain wonders if a statement has ever been made that is farther from the truth. "You've arrived."

"Get out of my way." Growling, Kain spins his lance back in guard. He has faced this thing so many times, the words are pointless noise. The intent is all that matters, and it is to kill. "_Now_."

The lips beneath scaled helm twist from a smirk to a smile. "No," it replies, pulling its own lance in a mirror guard of Kain's own, "I think it is time that you got out of mine."

At this moment, Kain cannot imagine anything more useless than words. The answer is steel. The answer has always been steel.

Incensed, they strike each other at exactly the same time. The force is enough to but cracks in the warped bones of his right wrist, but Kain scarcely feels it. He _enjoys_ it. There is something about how the adrenaline sings in his nerves; how it twists the muscles of his arms and back and torso that wakes a feeling of purity in him. Of course it is blocked – the haft of the creature's lance comes up with exactly the speed and strength that he expects from himself – but it does not matter. Nothing matters but the movement itself. Nothing matters but the dance.

He strikes again_ –_ the blood-soaked lance is parried from an angular slash. There is no light for the blade to gleam in.

_Again – _ducked this time, they both pivot, retreat, _ballestra. _The granite beneath his feet is no harder than the stone of the mountain, the Baron training yard, the deck of any Red Wing airship as it turns its face to the wind.

_Again – _Kain goes to war with a mirror; every action is countered, razor sharp, and more precise. They cut each other in exactly opposite patterns. There is no way to win or lose.

The seconds that pass are swollen with the crash of a lunatic river and the wilding squeals of fiends. With the hissing shear of steel on polished steel. With taunts that rain like blows and wound deeper, more true.

They should have no power to harm him, but they do. But then again, a great many things in his life have the power to harm him that should not, and hiding from it does not make it less true.

"You could have been King," it growls, face haughty and twisted. It will not stop speaking, even as it shuffles back, lance poised to strike again. "It was in your grasp."

Kain lunges and misses and the fury he feels is a noose that chokes him. That has been choking him forever. _  
><em>

"She lied. She _wanted _you. You saw it in Zot and you took _nothing._"

Kain forces his way past a block, spies an open joint in the armor he knows so well but his spear trembles, misses its mark. Rage sets him on fire. He will rip this creature's tongue out. It is unfit to touch her name. _  
><em>

"All those nights you patrolled with him." The mocking continues, the creature indifferent to the riot of strikes Kain hails on him. _Overhead. Angled. Wide from the right_. Every single one landed with crushing force. Every single one blocked. "You could have killed him any time. He had such a long, nice neck."

The blood pounding in Kain's ears drowns out anything else but visceral fury. It throbs in his temples and twists his face and guides his body as he turns, crouches, sneers,_ jumps_.

It is possible, Kain thinks, racing into a sky overflowing with fiends, that he has never felt anything but this anger. This loathing of all the things and principles and people he has failed. And even as demon claws shred his skin from all angles, as they threaten to break his ears with their screeching, he wonders if he will ever feel anything else.

Even the wind on his face, so long his only solace, is polluted. It does nothing but taste of bile and ruin. It does nothing but spoil on his lips.

"Tell me – what's left for you?" Following Kain up a hair-thin second behind, the thing is as close behind him as shadow. The mid-air crash of their weapons does not drown out the words, no matter how many timeshe strikes. "The last heir to Highwind? You've nothing but a nameless whore, a pack of thieves and peasants to call your allies." It smiles, raises its own lance to aim a blow. Kain brushes it aside without thinking, but the words are the true cut. "Where are your sons? Your honor? Your house? Your lands?" it spits. "What did you have that you didn't you surrender at Cecil Harvey's feet?"

High in the decaying sky, in a storm made of gossamer membrane and empty eyes, Kain discards his lance and does not know why. From squire to Commander of the Dragoons, he has never once dueled without it by choice. And yet, as the thing swings wide at the insane apex of their jump, the weapon seems suddenly unbearable in his hand. It is an impediment. A piece of steel that only prevents him from strangling this thing. From snapping its neck purely, its flesh warm under his palms.

In nonsense spirals, it falls. Kain loses track of it as it crashes somewhere – lost or shattered, he does not care which – on the ground below. Perhaps the river takes it. Perhaps it goes to better hands than his.

"_Nothing._" When Kain finally gives an answer, he is surprised at how it leaves an exit wound. Like their descent, the word is wild in his throat, something he cannot contain. "Nothing that was not already his. Nothing the better man did not earn by right."

"Pathetic." Kain watches the creature note his abandoned weapon, sees glee light up his own darkened face. Only barely does he twist his body so it catches no resistance, so it falls just fast enough to miss the killing edge of an overhand cut. "And so you have nothing."

"Wrong_._" Granite rushes towards them; at this speed and angle, they will impact with monstrous force. Likely – hopefully –it will kill them both. "I have _exactly_ what I deserve."

The creature's reaction is odd. _Unexpected. _Because even though Kain has lost control of everything: his life, his weapon, his fall, it is the thing from the mirror that screams in rage. It throws an erratic strike against gravity – an angled downstroke, a blow Kain has landed a thousand times; could land half-dead, in his sleep – that sails just wide. It overreacts, and all of a sudden, Kain sees the opening is there.

A hyperextension. A thrust that takes too long to retract to a guard. A bit of room, right there. _Right there at its throat_ .

Kain's body reacts as he has trained it to, as he has broken and remade it to: seamlessly, without any hesitation at all. He raises his leg to slow descent. His lips twitch, but he does not smile.

The feel of his knee breaking back the creature's elbow is satisfying. But not nearly so satisfying as the gurgling sounds it makes as Kain tightens his hands around its throat.

_There is too much speed. Far too much. _The thought only whispers at the edge of Kain's mind as he squeezes. They are now in uncontrolled free-fall, but that is of little matter at all. If it ends this way, it does not bother him. There are worse ways to die than by falling.

He squeezes harder. Beneath his palm, cartilage goes soft as the creature's larynx starts to give way.

"Leave me, now," Kain whispers. There is only enough room in his mind for the meanest adjustment, enough of a pitch so that returning to earth will not snap his back before the deed is done. "Leave me _be._"

It smiles. "No." The eyes in the dragon helm are dead and cold. "I...think not..."

The landing is everything that Kain expects. A rolling clatter of steel and stone and resplendent impact he measures by the cracking in his jaw. Knocking Kain's hands from where they've found purchase, the force of gravity shatters them; breaks him and his shadow apart as the earth breaks apart a drop of rain.

The ground throws him somewhere. He lands somewhere. The seams in his stitches split, and he bleeds from old wounds as well as new.

The pain is magnificent. The silence more so. The long and barren stillness that is interrupted only by the ragged sound of Kain's own breathing; the squawk of demons as they spin overhead, just watching.

Hazily, Kain wonders what they see. Human wreckage? The waste one man can lay to his own life? Or perhaps it is not as weighty as all that. More likely, they see nothing that matters to them. A single injured fool, cut in half.

It is not the last ounce of strength Kain has to crawl back over to the thing, but it is close. Everything seems distorted with blood and exhaustion, but he has enough, he knows, to drag it up by its neck. To yank off its mocking helm. To push it up against a cavern wall. To press his fingers around its neck and finish what he started.

Kain recognizes it is pointless. That it will be back again. But he does not care. He has been at this task too long. He knows of no other way to help. Not other way to make up for the fact that his own exhausting search for redemption has set this evil thing on the world.

"_Leave me." _Blood drips from Kain's nose. He can feel the pulse under his fingers begin to flutter.

"You cannot kill me," it whispers, amusement and lack of oxygen distorting its voice. Now that the helm is off, Kain sees his own face, wrecked with blood and cruelty; his own eyes, bright with something he cannot bear to see. "I will live...as long as you do. I was the only one of us…who didn't fail…"

"Be gone." Kain repeats himself. He will keep on repeating himself until it's true. "Stay gone."

"No…" Kain doesn't understand where this creature gets the air he needs to wheeze out more words but it does. The collapsing throat trembles, desperate to laugh. "I think…not…" It grins. "You can do..._nothing_ without me. I am…what you wanted….what you truly are…"

It is perhaps the stubbornly uncurling fingers in Kain's right hand as he tightens his grip that does it. Or perhaps it is a combination of the fruitless effort, which is as familiar as reflex, and the vicious grin of this thing's face, which is as familiar as breath, but Kain feels the words screwing into his mind and resting there. Feels them tugging on a thought that would make him laugh heartily if it did not also make him feel so utterly hollow and alone.

A second passes and Kain blinks. Shakes his head. Stares. Sees. _It's right_. The thought shocks him to his soul. In it's own way, this thing – this man – was right the entire time.

This creature is no ghost in a mirror. No vile Lunarian trick designed to mock him with his weakness. Nor is it his past, twisted by cruel sorcery into a facsimile of a man. This is _him_. Or something he might one day have become, had fate or Rydia of Mist in her infinite power not sent him falling down the mountain. Had he not been forced to see himself so clearly in the blade that hung low over Rosa's neck, gold-glinting amongst the staggering enchantments of Zot.

Kain sucks in a short, pained breath. And as he watches the truth stare back at him, he realizes something so simple and complete he knows in an instant it cannot be wrong.

In the present, he is not this man. He is not capable of it. But it is not because he is like Cecil, whose darkness was only ever the shallow inversion of his light. Nor is it because there is a part of him that still dreams that he is strong and worthy – perhaps even brave – and would have won out, in the end.

It is because of Theodor Harvey. It is because _Golbez_, of all men, took his mind, and so spared his life.

His past is the very thing that has saved him. And he has been running from it as a green coward, farther and faster than he has run from anything.

There is something so farcical in the realization, so violently ironic, that Kain finds the laugh he was holding back slide from his lips. Unintentionally, his grip slackens and for the first time in recent memory, he finds himself truly smiling, finds the knot he harbors in his chest unraveling, releasing itself in a low, unburdened breath.

The ridiculousness of it borders on obscene. And perhaps he should be angry, and should allow this thing no quarter anyway. But when he searches his breast for the thick, loathing fury that has lived there for so long, he finds nothing.

Absolutely nothing, fresh and swift as air. And a lightness that tells him whatever victory is to be had here, it will not be won this way.

The creature looks at him almost quizzically. It doesn't seem to understand why Kain just lets his hands drop, why it suddenly has all the air it could ever need. "…Fool," it croaks, relying on insults now. "…of all things….quarter, now?"

Rising, Kain has neither strength nor inclination to reply. He wants to search the river now. Find Lightning. His allies. Leave this place.

It begins the second that he pulls his hands away. Kain neither knows nor cares much for magic, but as he drops his arms, he can see something start that he has never seen before, in all the times he has laid this thing low. It begins to come apart, the black scales of its armor blooming with strange spheres of light. And for the first time, he sees an expression of actual fear hover on its face.

"…What_?_" it mutters, the words hoarse through a broken throat. "What…magic is this…."

Stepping back, Kain's gaze snaps to his filthy hands. Breath catching in his throat, he narrows his gaze at the light that's gathering, soft and white under a mad black sky. Whatever is happening to the thing before him is happening to him as well, and he feels a strange sensation spread its wings in his nerves. A kind of airiness, he'd say, if he had to, that reminds him of his youth. Of a time before he wasted his life on small and petty things. When the future seemed a place filled with possibilities other than stone.

He can end this here, somehow. It is as clear to him as anything has ever been. The most unencumbered thought he has had in a very long time. _How absurd, _he thinks. _How – _

"Kain!"

Kain would not think himself easily distracted at the moment. The magic that's seizing him is overwhelming and bright, and it coats his senses in the smell of pine and mint and candles melting down. But still – somehow – even in the thrall of the enchantments, he hears it. His name. Called out by a voice that echoes with loss so deep, he has no choice but to turn and see.

"Fuck. _Highwind. _Turn the hell around, man. Right now. _Please."_

It's Laguna. Sopping wet and dripping blood, he's lurching from the river on his hands and knees. His weapon's clutched tight in his hand, but his eyes are wild and unlocked.

He starts running. "Laguna." The man's body is lead weight as Kain hauls him up. "_What_ – "

"No time, Highwind." The words are raw. "_Yuna. _I tried…not fast enough…" Doubling over Kain's arms, he hacks out salt water. "She's…_She's…_"

Kain follows his friend's eyes back to the river, takes in everything that isn't said. "No," he mutters. He's already moving forward. Already searching the black water for any trace of light, any glint of a Summoner's staff, but there's nothing. Only water wrathful as sin, and blacker still, than that.

Repelled by Kain's distraction, the magic fades around him. It's still attempting something, but Kain views it as an annoyance now. Something that pulls his attention from where it is most required.

Almost forgotten, the heap of armor laughs, spits. "And so you fail again," it wheezes. "Give up victory…for the sake of another Summoner the Lord of All Waters claims for his own…" It sucks in air through its collapsed throat in a rattling laugh. "…You will never win…never...never go home again."

At the words, Laguna's face darkens. And although Kain can feel the weakness in his body, there's no hesitation in the way he shakes his MP-7, the conclusive snap with which the cartridge locks.

"You. Whatever you are," Laguna growls, all humor drained from his voice. It never existed at all. "You should consider shutting up. Because I can tell you, you absolutely do not want to fuck with me right now." Turning to Kain, he goes on. "You gotta find her. I can't cover ground like you do. She was alive…" His voice falters. "I saw her eyes."

"Yes," the thing continues taunting. "…try and find her…kill yourself…for one…already dead…"

Stepping out of Kain's grasp, Laguna tucks his gun to his shoulder. "I'd speak for yourself, there," he snarls. "And what'd I tell you about fucking with me? Plus – " He tosses strings of soaking hair from his eyes " – I think I owe you one for my friend."

Scowling, Kain turns away, and his resurgent rage consumes the remnants of the magic like smoke. But that hardly seems important. He does not require it for what he needs to do.

Desperately scanning the water, on some level, Kain's nevertheless aware that Laguna's already stepped forward and trained his weapon between the eyes of his target. And that if he fires true – which he surely will – whatever chance it is he had in this moment will vanish and not return.

_But then so be it. _In the end, Kain supposes, the light is not so important to him. In some respects, he is better off without it.

There is no decision to make. And though Kain hears the crack of the gun go off behind him, he ignores it. Pressing his clawed hand to his lips, he focuses on a spot of light in the distance that he prays is what he's looking for, then simply jumps forward and dives.

* * *

><p>Tifa Lockhart always thinks it's strange, how things change when they're set to music. They get softer, she thinks, and brighter. Like they're both more real and less real at exactly the same time.<p>

It's probably not a normal thing to be thinking as she opens her eyes to a nightmare. A sky infested with darkness and hunting-sounds; Vaan busted up and unconscious in her arms; a world that's dizzy and wet and tender at the edges, like a bruise. At this point, the normal thing to be thinking would be "_Oh, shit"_ or "_Thank goodness we're alive"_, but it's hard for Tifa to turn her mind to that when there's a melody playing in her head. _And it's such a pretty sing-song thing._ She thinks it sounds like spring.

_Her Providence sought nothing.  
><em>_Her Providence made nothing.  
><em>_She but looked on, silent in her sorrow…_

Hugging Vaan tighter, she buries her face in his sandy hair and tries really hard not to hear it. If she's hearing it this loudly, it means that Raines is very, very close. And if he's very, very close, it means that they're dead. That he's going to kill them, exactly the way he promised.

She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want Vaan to die. She doesn't want anyone to die, actually. She thinks she's seen enough.

Dissidia. The Phantom Village. Midgar. Nibelhiem burning; _Nibelhiem always, always burning…_

_Her Providence sought nothing.  
><em>_Her Providence made nothing.  
><em>_She but looked on, silent in her sorrow…_

Placing her hands over her ears, Tifa chews her lower lip. It's never been this loud before. On the _Falcon, _she felt it more like a trance, the sound like the tinkling notes in a music box. But she can hear everything right now; the words playing on a kind of constant repeat, getting more and more insistent; more and more seductive.

She blinks, shudders, refuses to cry. Over the top of Vaan's head, on the skin of the river, the demons dive like gulls.

_Her Providence sought nothing.  
><em>_Her Providence made nothing.  
><em>_She but looked on, silent in her sorrow…_

How Tifa manages to get up is anyone's guess. She keeps on thinking of Zangan, how he always said that focus is the martial artist's greatest weapon. More than reflexes or technique, all the great ones knew how to keep their mind still. To keep a silence in the center of their thoughts that nothing could touch. No pain or loss or physical blow.

_It's an iron box, girl. _How many times did he say that? _What's inside, no-one can take. _

And so, despite the fact that the melody seems to twist Tifa's mind now – tilting between mind-numbing pleasure and wrenching pain – somehow she staggers up. Somehow, she shuts out the all the jumbled-up feelings, limps a few steps to the shore, and looks out to try and find her friends.

_Please still be alive. Please, please, please. _Tifa's not big on bargaining with the universe, but she thinks there probably isn't anything she wouldn't give to see them safe again. _You can have whatever you want; I'll give you whatever you want. _

"Where are you guys?" Tifa rubs her freezing skin so hard it stings, and she can't seem to stop blinking because her eyes won't focus on one thing. It doesn't help that the cavern's just chaos, either: a strobe light of dizzy black wings and fever-dream-colored mana. Churning waves and jagged rocks that curl like the knuckles of some great iron giant that's ready to crawl out of the sea. "Please. Please. Where _are_ you?"

There's no answer. Just more music that gnaws at her mind, so beautiful and dizzying she doesn't know if she wants to scream or cry or dance.

Clenching her fists, Tifa exhales hard and looks harder. The river winds like a nest of string, and it has all the tiny little islands in it where people could wash up. _They've got to be okay. _Frantically, she wipes burning salt from her eyes with the back of her glove, does everything she possibly can to wrestle down the panic she's starting to feel close around her throat. _They've just got to._

Her eyes start searching for any kind of break in the darkness. The bright flash of a spear or a gunblade or an MP-7… _Nothing. Grey. _The whirling gold of Summoner's magic, pretty as fireflies in spring…. _More grey. _Green. The green of the Lifestream, of white magic…

_Green. Oh. _Tifa almost feels her heart stop in her chest when she sees it. Flickering and distant, it seems like a vine in scorched earth, but it's there. _Aerith. "_Aerith!_" _The name tears out of Tifa's throat before she can help it, and she screams it loud enough that it blocks out the music for one glorious, perfect second. "Aerith, we're over _here_!" When there's no reply, she waves her hands over her head, tries again. This time desperate; as hard as she can; at the top of her lungs. "_Aerith! _Aerith, turn around_**.**_"

Tifa shouldn't be surprised that Aerith doesn't answer. The river's still roaring, and inhuman screaming still splits the cavern air. But that doesn't stop her from panicking when nothing comes back over the river but thick, unwieldy silence.

Tifa teeters on her feet, barely able to keep her balance. The song moves like an abusive caress now, first stroking her nerves, then scratching them. Her mind's spinning in circles – a drunk waltz at a bad costume party ball – but she knows she's got to get Aerith's attention. She's got to get Aerith's attention right away.

And Vaan's still unconscious. And she still can't see one other friend. And _oh crap, oh crap, oh crap…_

Pivoting on her heel, Tifa can't afford to let her thoughts drag her down any farther. Vaan's always got a billion things strapped to the inside of his vest. He's got to have a bomb fragment in there somewhere. Tripping the few steps back towards him, she drops to her knees, pulls open the sodden fabric and starts searching through the charms.

Her hands tremble. She can barely work the clasp. _Her Providence sounght nothing…_

"Sorry, buddy," Tifa whispers, blowing limp strings of hair from her mouth. A kind of toxic sweetness rolls down the back of her neck. She fights to keep her mouth from going slack. "I promise I'll replace whatever, 'kay? We just need find a way out of here." She brushes past a bunch of rat tails and pendants, Ribbons, about ten stupid fish scales, a _**turtle** shell….what? _Frustrated, she scowls "How do you even carry this stuff?" She feels like her voice is going high-low-hysterical, but for some reason she feels like she should keep on talking, for his sake and hers. "Doesn't it get heavy? And you don't even have _one _potion?"

She's still searching through soaked through charms when she notices the shadow stretch in front of her. Avenging; deadly; angelic, it spills over the ground.

"Her Providence sought nothing."

Raines' voice crawls all over Tifa's skin, in perfect time with the song. It dawns on her she should stop looking for that bomb fragment now, but she doesn't. She keeps on going. She doesn't look up.

Her lower lips quivers. It hurts so much it's beautiful. _Why won't it stop? Why won't he __**stop**__?_

"Her Providence made nothing."

The point of Raines' sword is as cold as it is sharp. When it comes to rest between her eyes, she can't tell if it freezes or cuts.

Her hand flattens against Vaan's chest. He's breathing. It's good that he's still breathing.

She tells herself nothing else is real but his skin under her palm. His good heart, beating. _Steady, steady._

"She but looked on, silent in her sorrow…"

"Raines." Tifa curls her fingers on Vaan's skin. She still can't look up. "Cid. _Please. _Please don't do this."

The blade turns between her eyes, and Tifa feels something warm and wet roll down her nose-bridge. It drops on Vaan's skin in splatters. _It's lovely_. She trembles. All that rose red on dusky skin. Like flowers in a lifeless place_._

"The Goddess Pitied Mortals," Raines continues, relentless, speaking over the voices that are pulling her mind apart. "Destined as they were to die…"

"_Cid_." Tifa doesn't move; can't move; won't move. The only part of her that does is her eyes. She finally looks at him, and for some reason, even among all those demons, his flawless face is the most terrifying thing. Her head is spinning. _Has anything ever hurt so much?_ "Why?"

The eyes he gives her are stunning and stunningly insane. If she falls into them, she'll die there.

"And so She deigned intervene in the hour of their greatest peril." Spread wide, the blood on Raines' wings makes everything else on him a pornographic white. Feather-light and scalpel-sharp, the tip of the sword runs sideways and down, slices a long, articulate cut in her cheek. "She averted cataclysm that was to be…"

"…No." Tifa can't feel the tongue she's using to force out the word.

"…and put to rest the ones who would have robbed so many of what fate had ordained."

It's an indescribable magic that tries to drag Tifa to her feet. It fires her synapses for her, pops open her jaw, fills her mouth with words she doesn't want to say. There is no part of her mind she doesn't dedicate to keeping her mouth shut, her knees on the ground.

"Ngh." She makes the sound high in her sinuses. It comes out like a mewl. "Ngh…_no…_"

"Would you like to sing it now?" Raines asks her, laconic. Sheathing his sword, he smirks, and when he snaps his fingers, Tifa feels her knees move with her consent. "It is quite lyrical, is it not?"

"I don't understand." Swaying on her feet, Tifa feels the music expand, warm and wet and nauseating inside of her. _Her Providence sought nothing…_ "What are you doing? What's happening to me? I was only…" Her lips move but they feel like they've been injected with Novocain. They're just flapping. "Your name…I was only….trying…to be nice…to _reach_ you…"

"Nice." Raines twists her body for her. Closing his fist, he and pulling, he yanks her forward and she stumbles over Vaan's body. "Kind. Do you truly think it so? To return to me the memories of what I was? So I may know what I have become?" He pauses, steps towards her, runs a dead cold finger down her cheek. "Perhaps I did too, once. I do not anymore." Leaning in, he whispers in her ear. "Perhaps now I believe it was cruel."

Tifa shudders at the warmth on her skin: a fire in the deadlands of night. It hurts, though. It hurts so much. _Is this what a stroke feels like? _

"Then why haven't you just killed me already?" There should be demons screaming behind her but she can't hear them. It's all song and the silences within it, and Tifa can't think. "If you're so angry and you've got to do what Lindzei tells you…why…" She swallows. "Why am I still here…."

"You reminded me I am a slave," The hand at her face drops to her jaw, wipes the blood away as if it were tears. "Was that kind, Tifa? Was that good?"

"You're not…you're not a _slave…_" Tifa's fighting with everything she's got to remember Vaan behind her. She can't leave him. It's the only thing that's stopping her from doing what, she really doesn't know. "You're saved us once." It's so fragile, her voice. "You said...you said you were sorry…"

"Fell Lindzei has burned a prophecy of Nova Crystallis into your mind. She did so the second you put your hand on the door of her study." Pulling back, Raines pinches her chin, forces his eyes deep into hers. Tifa feels her mind drain. "Did you know that? Did you know what it means? What I can do with it?"

"What?" She blinks at him, dizzy. Her arms are lead at her sides. Her mouth is dry. "I _don't _– "

"Perhaps I should show you the kindness you have shown me." For the first time, Tifa sees something like human bitterness play across Raines' face. This close, it's gnarled marble: darkly gorgeous. Purely grotesque. "Perhaps you should see what such kindess has wrought?"

"No…" Tifa won't listen. Vaan is behind her and she can't afford to listen. She's already hurt him enough. "_No._"

"Perhaps I will let you see it." Raines' eyes are burning. His words are burning too. They set fire to every last one of her nerves, and she feels herself leaning into them, wanting, wanting…_what? No._ "Perhaps I will allow you to keep something as well. Your name?" The hand at her jaw slips around the back of her head, grabs a fist of her hair and yanks hard. Her neck cranes. "The names of your friends?"

"No." There's blood on her lips. It hurts to talk. She does anyway. "_No._"

"You _believe _in me, do you not?" Raines' voice is more human than she's ever heard it. And harder too. "Don't you think you can save me? You are a hero, are you not?" The softest turn of a smile moves his lips, and it would be so, so beautiful if it weren't so unbelievably sad. The smile curdles. "Isn't that what heroes are for?"

TIfa's entire universe seems to shrink until it fits on Cid Raines' slowly moving lips; the simmering black in his eyes; his hand fisting in her hair. Demons dive around them, but she can't really see them – to her eyes they look like nothing but melting smoke. The river pounds its fists against the shore, sends sparkling spray skyward, but she doesn't notice. She doesn't notice anything but pain, radiating; warmth, pulsing; a song, the mouth that sang it for her…

_Sing to me. Sing. Please._

Tifa's not sure where her mind is going. She's had too much to drink. She can't move anything, and all she feels is his breath. Nauseated, she struggles for control, but it's slipping from her. She just feels so bad for him, enslaved the way he's been. He'd been a good person once. She could tell when she touched him.

_He could be a good person again._ Her body wants to come apart. I_ could help. _There's all this screaming, but it's sweet like honey, and sticky. _I could help. I could change it. I…_

"You want to change the world?" he whispers, pulling back so hard Tifa feels her scalp tear. His other hand grabs her waist, and when it clenches, she feels gauntleted fingers dig deep into her skin. "You want to believe in good things," he spits. "Good men?"

_I always was the weakest one. _The one part of Tifa's mind that still belongs to her openly mocks her. _The one who trusted everyone. The one who cried. The one who hates fighting with people. The one who – _

"No." There's blinding pain when Tifa says it. She doesn't even know how it crawls out of her throat. "_No._"

"Kneel, Tifa Lockhart." Raines' words all but crush her mind; his fingers the bones of her hip. She might be screaming. "I will show you the cost of such arrogance. I will show you what I have paid."

There's a lot of blood on Tifa's face. Even with her head pulled back the way it is, it drools from the slender gash on her cheek and pours over her jaw. And she has never, never wanted anything more than to just listen. Than to do what her legs are telling her and bow, kneel, break. But she can't. She just can't give in this time, there's too much at stake.

Tifa feels her hair snap as she pulls her face up, the blood bubble on her lips as she repeats herself. "_No._"

The word is pure, unadulterated pain. And Tifa doesn't know if she said it or just thought it, but does she know she's got to keep trying. Just find one little thing to hold on to; take just one little step away. And if she do that, then maybe she can take two; and if she can take two, then maybe she doesn't have to make this mistake. She doesn't have to listen. She can listen to herself.

She can do that.

_One step at a time. One step. Little iron box…_

"No." The word's like a life-raft now. Tifa clings to it. She doesn't let it go. Gritting her teeth, she spits it again, and she starts to hear the sound of her own voice over the music. "No. I'm not listening to you, Raines." Trembling, she knows she probably doesn't have the strength to resist this magic much longer, but she's going to keep trying. She'll die trying. "I'm sorry – " The single step she takes back is the sudden short-circuiting of all her nerves at once, and all the strange pleasure evaporates. She wants to vomit. She wants to die. She can't do either. " – I'm_ so_ sorry…" she croaks, tears streaming down her face, "…I couldn't help you. I wanted to…but I can't. I'm…_not…__listening…_I'm sorry"

Something Tifa doesn't understand at first happens to Raines' eyes when she says it. They've been blindingly insane this entire time, incandescent with rage. But while they still blaze, and his face stays cruel and contorted, she swears she sees the hint of another emotion dawn there. Something deeper, wider, more real.

Regret. _Heatbreak._ Such unbelievable heartbreak, it reaches through the haze of her pain to press down on her chest.

_Oh Raines, _she thinks. _Oh, Cid._

It all happens in one second. The music stops. The pain stops. Everything stops. He lets her go.

Strings cut, Tifa crashes to the ground in a raw heap of nerves that can't remember how to fire. She twitches, almost immobile. She can barely lift her head.

"I, too." There's something wrong with his voice when he speaks. He draws his sword. Like his armor, it's spun silk in the moonlight. "I am sorry for that, too."

"Yeah, well. You got some way of showing it, jackass." Tifa would say that the sound of Vaan's voice was the most wonderful thing ever, but then that would be short-changing how she feels about the sound of his magic. Whooshing and swift, Windburst sounds like spring, and for a moment, she almost lets herself think that that it's bought them some time. That Raines would be distracted; that that he'd be so shocked the spell would knock him back, that _well – something – _

But she should know better than that. And when the static around the first volley of magic clears, he's still there: cold and implacable, weapon in hand. An immoveable object, Raines just stands, luminous in shifting clouds of vaporized granite, as Vaan tosses spell after into his face. All he does is look at her – he just keeps on looking at her – with that same crushing hatred, that same crushing grief, in his eyes.

Tifa wishes she could look away. She wishes she could do more than struggle to her hands and knees. "Vaan – " she mutters.

"I've got this Teefs." Standing between her and Raines, he's yelling at her over a bleeding shoulder. Wind whips hair over sharp, furious eyes. "Run. Just get up and run. I'm not letting him do…_whatever_ it was to you."

"No," Tifa groans, trying unsuccessfully to force herself to her feet. "_No, _I'm not_ –_ "

"Enough." Raines waits until Vaan's run out of mana before speaking. _Before moving. _The spell he's gathered into his free hand is a tiny collapsed star – dark wreathed in flame. "I have had enough of this, I think, Tifa Lockhart."

Because Vaan drops immediately to cover her, Tifa can't tell if Raines has released the spell or not. She braces for impact, wraps her arms around Vaan's back, waits for the sensation of her skin burning off her bones.

She hears the magic crackle; feels the ozone snap in the air, smelling like rain. Searing brightness invades the corners of her eye, hard and white. But just as she expects it to keep expanding, to consume her vision, her nerves, her life, _Vaan's life_, it stops.

_Or no._ It doesn't stop, necessarily. _It corrodes_. Falls apart at the edges of Tifa's peripheral vision, shot through with an eerie, squalid darkness that feels stupidly, mercifully, cool.

Relaxing her grip on Vaan's trembling back, she looks up. Catches her breath in surprise.

"Raines. Raines. Raines." It's Nero speaking; Nero who's suddenly materialized between them and death by burning. The darkness that surrounds him swallows Raines' magic the way night swallows color. "I'd not taken you for a schoolyard bully."

"This is not your fight, Nero the Sable." Raines' only raises his casting arm, and the reflected light of the spell on his face is winter sun on the icy side of a mountain. "Move or die."

"Isn't it?" The tendrils of darkness around him look like snakes. And like any snake charmer, he uses them to poison, to attack. "Her Providence's pet is quite a petulant brat. She won't go anywhere without her playmates. And besides – " Nero's half-eaten by darkness, but Tifa can hear the psychotic amusement in his voice, the happy, anticipating twitch of iron wings " – it's been some time since I've had a little fun. Etro really is a frightful bore."

Raines states a fact. "You will not see your brother again, if you die."

"Don't flatter yourself, Raines." Guns Tifa doesn't remember Nero carrying seem to materialize in his long, corpse-colored fingers, and they drip that fizzy-feeling darkness that always makes Aerith's skin crawl. "I wouldn't make any bets on who dies here, today."

Because she's still so dizzy, Tifa can't account for all what happens next, just that suddenly there's a blur of scent and magic and sound. And edgeless mess of too many things at once. The crack of weapons firing rapidly. The stink of carbon and gunpowder. An electric storm of magic, both bright and black, that skids out over the river before erupting to gut the cavern with light.

Holding tight to Vaan's thin, clammy arm, Tifa can't keep her eyes off the sky. It's unbelievable, the power and speed they're attacking each other with – like something mythical, out of a book. How Raines launches himself skyward in a single beat of blood-soaked wings. How Nero follows him up, not by flying – the iron on his back's a joke: useless, evil bits of wire tortured into his back – but in a surge of living black. _A dark angel and a light one, _Tifa thinks, shuddering in the unrelenting wind. _Fighting over hell._

The magic they're firing at each other doesn't have a steering wheel; no brakes or controls. There's no end to its velocity. And it whirls through the high reaches of the chamber like bits of shattered lightning; the frenzied soul of the storm.

"Holy crap," Vaan whispers, awestruck. "Teefs, look."

Tifa can't think of say back. There isn't anything to say. All she can do is just keep watching. Bear silent witness as, in a final hissing pop, Nero's magic seems to boil over, collapse him and Raines and half the Cie'th in the sky in a point of darkness that looks like a dark spot on the sun.

She honestly doesn't know if "silent" is the right word to describe the world after they're gone. The river's still roaring, after all. And there's still the dry sound of salt scratching, the brutal wind blowing, her own heartbeat pounding in her ears…

_Alive_, she thinks, a bit startled by the realization. She's got no idea why or how – it makes absolutely no sense at all – but she's alive. They both are.

And she's got her mind. It's fuzzy, and it hurts, but it's all hers, she's pretty sure.

"Vaan." Shaking herself out her daze, Tifa turns towards him, puts her hand on his chest. "Vaan, you okay?"

"Well, not really," he grumbles, helping her up by her waist. "But if not being _completely _dead counts as okay, then I guess." Pausing, Vaan rubs the back of his neck and scowls when he sees it come back slick with blood. "You?" His eyes darken, flash concern. "I mean, I saw what he was trying to do you."

Rolling a sore shoulder, Tifa shudders, looks up again. Raines and Nero aren't there anymore, and neither are most of the Cie'th, but it's still just so dark._ So cold._ "Yeah. I think so." Smiling unevenly, she take two fingers and pokes him in his ribs. "I mean, Raines isn't the nicest guy to ever ask me out – "

"Teefs." Swatting her hand away, Vaan makes a face at her as he interrupts. "C'mon. That's not even funny. Like, not even a little. Besides," he says, voice softening. "That took a lot of guts, throwing him off like that." He stops for a second to give her a light squeeze. "I'm proud of you."

Averting her eyes, Tifa lets out a short, warm laugh. She's not sure exactly what she did, other than just refuse to hurt her friends, but the words make her feel better anyway. "…Thanks, buddy," she says, squeezing back. Deep cold blows off the water, and she shivers. Looking around at the arid stillness, she changes the subject "You think…you think we won?"

Vaan snorts a soft laugh, shrugs. "You got me," he replies. "Maybe. Doesn't look there's anything trying to eat our faces off right now, but who knows? That'll probably change in about five minutes or so." With his free hand, he reaches up to scratch his nose. "You know where anybody else is?"

"No, I –" Tifa's eyes dart back to him. "I thought I saw Aerith, but everyone else…I – "

"_Holy –_ " Vaan interrupts her with a sharply drawn breath, a suddenly bloodless expression. "Teefs. _Crap._"

Shocked, Tifa turns her head right away. Still more than a little dizzy, she can't figure out what she's looking at until she hears it. The sodden plop of bodies hitting the ground; a groan that would sound an awful lot like Kain, if someone had dropped Yazoo's truck on him. She turns immediately, and while she admits he looks pretty beat up – there's all kinds of new tears in his doublet, new wounds oozing new blood – it's not him she's concerned about.

It's the girl in his arms. The one with the yellow skin and the not moving chest and, _and –_

Kain collapses to his knees. Tifa's too shocked to even blink. "Yuna," she whispers. "Oh _Yuna_, no. No, no, no…"

Scrambling out of Vaan's grasp, Tifa ignores every single other thing in the Rift, and just runs.

* * *

><p>The truth is, if there's one thing that Aerith Gainsborough has always resented about her life – <em>and death<em>, she supposes – is that she's never gotten a lot of nice, inconsequential choices.

Because the Lifestream flows through her, everyone always needed her for something. And because everyone always needed her for something, she never could be everywhere she had to be at once. Every important choice she's made, someone had to suffer for it in a way she didn't.

It wasn't an easy realization. _That sometimes when you make one choice, all the other ones just disappear_. Aerith spent her first few months in the Lifestream a lot angrier about it that she let on. She knew she had to be there – she was dead, for one, and there were things she could only do from inside – but she also wanted to be alive so badly. To help put the shattered crust of the Planet back together again. Put Cloud and Tifa's shattered lives back together again. And then again in Dissidia, it was the same thing all over. She was caught. Between the gateways and the Rift; between helping her friends and helping Minwu; between an cruel lie and a crueler truth…

There's nothing fair about it, but Aerith had thought she'd made her peace with it. She'd thought that she was getting used to losing something every time she picks a path. But as she stalks the windswept river with her eyes, sees nothing but emptiness everywhere, it hits her all over again like it's the first time.

_Everyone's_ _gone._ She was here helping Lightning, and now everyone else is just…gone. The only thing she sees is black water and grey stone and white spray. _A desert_, she thinks, _dressing up as the sea._

"Aerith." Standing on wobbly legs, there's pain and coiled panic in Lightning's voice. "What happened?" She grimaces, tries to limp out of Aerith's arms and ahead under her own power. "Where _is _everything? What happened to – "

"I don't know." Cutting Lightning off so she doesn't have to say something that might hurt her, Aerith lets her senses expand. Reaching out with her mind, she calls out to Yuna but only a deep, terrible silence replies. "There was a lot of magic." Aerith tries to explain the riot sensations that were rippling through the Lifestream when she was healing, but none of the words are right. Nothing covers the raw power of it all. "I couldn't keep it straight and work on your spine at the same time. I think Yuna Summoned something…and Kain – " She shakes her head, still searching for a way to describe it so it makes sense " – something was happening to him."

"We've got to find them." Lightning says the obvious thing because Aerith knows it's the only thing she can do, the only thing keeping her from letting those huge emotions of hers spin out into something she can't control. She tries to struggle forward, sets her lips in a pale crimson line. "These monsters are clearing out." The words come out hard and small. "We've got to sweep the banks. I guess we can start here – "

Aerith can't tell whether it's the searing light of the bomb fragment exploding or the booming crash of it that steals Lightning's words from her lips. But either way, it yanks her attention south, back out over the river to a rising curl of carbon. Confused, she turns her head, tries to find the source of the sound, but then her thoughts fly apart as the air gets shredded by another shivering _crack. _

_Grenade,_ she thinks, grimacing over the ringing in her ears. _What?_

_Crack._ The next one's followed up by the faintest sound of a human voice, screaming. High and breathy and feminine, it sounds like –

"Tifa." Lightning says what Aerith thinks. "Shit. _Shit._" Fear glows white on Lightning's beautiful, bruised face. "We need to get over there. Can you…?"

Aerith's already halfway through the incantation for Teleport by the time that the question's out Lightning's mouth. She's nearly out of mana, so drawing the spell from the materia feels like nerves locking up, a kind of slow-motion electrocution that makes her feel sick, but she doesn't care. There's such sadness and terror – even in the echo of Tifa's voice – that she can't even _think _of anything she cares less about than her own pain.

"Aerith_!" _Even in the whirling chatter of the magic, she can hear the heartbreak that lurks right behind her name. "Aerith, we need you."

The world dissolves in an effervescent splash of green that bubbles and snaps. She feels her skin sizzle, Lightning's thin frame dissipate under her arm, but all she's concentrating on where she needs to be, the cry in Tifa's voice that chills her down to her core.

Blind teleportation's a huge risk, but she takes. Her mind fills up with images of shore and the stones and Tifa's pleading eyes.

"_Aerith, __**please**__."_

The boil of the water, endless with fury, ancient and black as enchanted steel. Rock formations that grin and guard.

"Hurry!"

Her friends. Not just Tifa, but Vaan and Laguna and Kain and –

_No._

What Aerith really sees when the world reforms in front of her turns everything in her to ice. Eyes wide with shock, she almost refuses to register Yuna's unmoving body. The utter greyness of her skin. Laguna, dripping wet and obviously strained from running from wherever he's run from, breathing into her lungs raggedly, desperately, pointlessly.

_It's not working. _Aerith can tell right away. It's not working at all. Her heart's stopped. And nothing he's doing will start it again.

"Move," is all she says, pausing just long enough to hand Lightning off to Vaan. She scratches her knees as falls on them, the loose stones carving tracks in her skin. "Laguna, _move._"

There's perfect devastation on Laguna's face as he looks up. "Dunno what happened, kiddo." The top layer's been scraped off his voice. There's only exposed nerve underneath. "I had her. Her hand. It just – "

"I said _move_, Laguna."Aerith's has absolutely no interest in what Laguna's saying. The only thing that matters is that he gets out of her way. "Right now."

The only way Aerith knows that Laguna's listened to her, cleared the way, is the faintest rustle of soaked fabric. The sudden cold in the space beside her. She's so focused on Yuna's inert body – even tinier now that it's not moving – she probably wouldn't have noticed if the stones started to grow legs and kick her; if the earth shifted completely beneath her feet.

She flattens her hands on Yuna's chest, trying as hard as she possibly can not to panic. The skin's unbearably cold. There's no pulse at all. They've got no Pheonix Downs, no potions, no ethers, _nothing._

It's all at the bottom of the river. Everything she needs – everyone she needs – is at the bottom of the river.

Drawing in a sharp quick breath, Aerith reaches for alternatives. Thunder would work – or something like it – but she stopped carrying black materia what seems like a hundred years ago. And she gave it up completely when she took the vows of the White Order. She'd have Lightning cast it, but without her brand she's got no magic, and Vaan's completely out of mana, and manual compressions didn't seem to be working...

Panic that can't decide what temperature it is coils up and down her spine. She doesn't know what to do. She can't remember a time when her mind was this blank, this out of options; this out of confidence; this out of time.

_Do no harm._ She feels Minwu's hands in her hair because she always feels Minwu's hands in her hair; she hears Minwu's voice in her ear because that's all she's heard since the second he died. She trembles, confused. _The first duty of white magic is to do no harm._

Looking down at Yuna's ashen face, Aerith takes a long deep breath. She broke those vows, and Minwu did too, she supposes. In search of an end she was _so certain_ justified the means. _A necessary sacrifice._

Closing her hand to a fist, Aerith bites her lower lip, summons all the magic she's got left in her body. It was a mistake, but it was so, so easy to make. It made so much sense. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. But who was she to judge? And if she made the wrong decision then, she could easily make the wrong decision now. And then. _And then – _

"_I forgotten about…beautiful things…it was an error…"_

His words hurt as much as Yuna's completely still chest, but it dawns on Aerith that maybe this was the real reason Minwu changed his mind about the truth. Because he remembered the other side of the story. The one they'd both forgotten, when they were trying to be cruel to be kind.

Maybe saving the world means people have to be ruthless sometimes. But then what good is saving it, if it can't have beautiful things?

An odd calm settles on her. It wasn't all right what they did. It wasn't all wrong. And one mistake, no matter how awful, doesn't mean that she needs to question every other choice she ever makes.

She can move on. She has to. They all do.

The thought comes into Aierth's mind like fresh air, and she feels some of the panic drain out of her. Slowing her racing mind, she stops fixating on what she can't do; focuses on what she can. She's got no mana left for the bludgeoning power of Cuaraga: for the intricacies of Raise or Arise, but she doesn't think she needs it, actually. All she really needs, she realizes, now that's she's calmer, is the first spell any white mage in novitiate robes learns over and over again until it's as natural as breathing. That first, root spell on which their entire craft is built.

All she needs is Cure. Just something to get Yuna's heart beating again. She can't get her all the way back up to full health, but if she can just give her back a little, maybe that'll be enough for now. Aerith just needs to keep her alive for one more hit; give her back just enough strength so she's got a little bit more than zero….

And the Lifestream will help her. This isn't like it was with Minwu, whose world wasn't connected to hers. The Lifestream and the pyreflies are the same energy; the same pulse; the living core of two universes that spin side by side in space.

She remembers Minwu's words again, because she will always remember. _"Sending, returning to the Lifestream, these are different words for different worlds."_ Because he's not dead if she remembers._ "What's life and death but moving a little energy around?" _Because before he was her lover, he was her teacher: founder of the White Order, the very first name among mages.

The spell falls out of her like a note of music. So light and soft, Aerith barely notices the power as it slips through her fingers and into the Lifestream, winds itself into Yuna's circulatory system and pulses, gently. Green and sweet – the beginning and the end – it refuses the lethality of drowning.

_Once_ – She waits, and nothing.

_Twice_ – Yuna's breath seems stuck somewhere in her lungs, and still nothing.

_Three times_ – If she's dead they've all failed at everything. Her world needs her. Everyone here needs her, this isn't something she can fail at –

"…Laguna?" Breathy and rasping, the voice surprises everyone. "…where? Are you…alright…?"

"Right here, kiddo." Sick with relief, Laguna doesn't waste a second scrambling forward. He's so fast and agitated, it seems like he's just going to grab her up off the ground a crush her, but he doesn't because he looks just terrified she'll break. Shaking, he settles for putting a hand on her forehead, for brushing half-frozen strands of hair behind her ear. "All good. Perfect. Just perfect, now." The words sound half swallowed. "How 'bout you?"

"…Mnpf." Yuna tries to smile but her mouth doesn't quite work. "Not…so good, I don't think."

"Yeah well." It's Vaan who interjects, and although he's trying to sound cheeky, Aerith can see how drawn his face is. The trauma in his eyes. "So Laguna," he starts, clearing his throat. "That white-water-whatever thing on your world _really_ like this?"

Not looking up, Laguna only shakes his head, laughs beneath his breath. "Kinda," he replies, continuing to stroke Yuna's hair back from her browline. "More lifejackets. Less zombies. But otherwise, yeah. Basically the same."

Tifa lets out a quiet giggle. "I don't know about that…"

It takes a long time for Aerith to calm down enough to back away from Yuna and take a look at everyone else, assess the damage. They've managed to get out alive, but only just. Both Laguna and Vaan are ribbed in second-degree burns, and Tifa's face is ravaged. Lightning's still wobbly on her feet, and Kain…Well, Kain's managed to pull himself to a loose kneel, but there's a disturbing rattle in his chest, and more than a little blood dripping from his mose, seeping through his clothes.

"Kain_._" Shaking herself out of the blur of her own relief, Aerith turns towards him, concerned. She'd felt something so strange from him earlier, and she's suddenly seized with worry. Lunarian magic is ancient, spiteful, cruel – capable of dissecting a life best lived in grey into the harshest shades of black and white… "_Kain_, are you – "

He waves her off with a brusque gesture and a wracking cough. And it's Lightning who answers on his behalf. "Leave him alone, Aerith," she says, shrugging off Vaan and struggling over to him on legs that don't quite work. "He's fine. He's just fine."

Kain himself doesn't respond. Still hacking water out of his lungs, he doesn't even look up when Lightning drapes an arm around him, puts a hand over his chest. He almost twists away, but she locks him in place, whispers something short and vicious with relief in his ear.

Aerith can't hear it, but whatever it is there's a long pause afterwards. And eventually, he puts his hand over hers, picks it up, presses her wrist to bloody lips.

Turning back to Yuna, Aerith exhales a fragile breath. It's cold now. And for the first time since she capsized the boat, she feels it. Wind blows through the thin, soaked fabric of her shift like it's not even there; sinks insinuating fingers into her pores. _We're lost._ The thought makes her shiver as much as the freezing spray. And while they're alive for now, there's no telling when Raines will come back from wherever he is to finish them off.

_He'll keep coming. _As she presses down on the soft parts of Yuna's body, checking for fractures, lacerations, bleeding, this is something Aerith knows for sure. And if they don't get moving now, find some other way to get out of here, they'll be helpless when he comes for them.

"We've got to keep moving." It's Laguna who says what she's thinking. Glancing up at her, his face is a watercolor landscape of dirt and blood. "She okay to pick up? Can we move her?"

Aerith clicks her tongue against the top of her mouth. "I don't know. I'm not sure if we have a choice." She shudders, torn. Laying her hands on Yuna's stomach, she casts one last Cure through her final reserve of mana and grimaces as the pain twists her nerves. "You'll just have to be really careful."

"…It's okay." Yuna struggles to speak. "Don't worry." Reaching up weakly, she puts her hand over Aerith's. "Really…I'll…I'll be okay."

"_Yes, you will my child_."

Aerith's not sure what she notices first, the voice or the strangely awesome presence that accompanies it. Dense and wild, there's nevertheless a horrifying loneliness to it, a sadness so deep that it catches her breath in her throat, pushes down on her chest like heartbreak.

It's stunning. But not as stunning as the pity that gleams in Anima's single, visible eye.

"_Thank you for saving her, daughter of the Lifestream."_ Anima's chains drag along the riverbed as she walks, grating and slow. "_Know that I mourn the death of the First Mage of Fynn. Though his legacy passes down the river, and shall be known in other worlds."_

"I know." Aerith speaks past the tightness in her throat. "I understand."

"Uh, Aerith…." Aerith looks up to see Vaan kneeling to pull a spare knife from his boot. "…is that…I mean…." Crouching to a ready stance, he narrows his eyes. "…shouldn't we be trying to kill that?"

"_With your full strength and a party behind you, you could not kill me if you tried, boy." _Kneeling beside Yuna, Anima gently brushes the hair from her face before sending pulsing waves of Curaga into her body. "_I am here to bear you to Etro's Throne._"

"…as you bore us across your bridge?" Kain's voice is low and rough. Soaked through, the ash blond hair that falls over makes already hard eyes seem like stone.

"_Perhaps it is wise not to trust me, Sir Knight." _With indescribable grace, she gathers Yuna into her rotting arms and stands. _"But I am afraid you have little choice. Your death waits here_. _Raines will not be stayed long._"

"She's right, Kain," Tifa answers after a moment, and her face is so isolated, so sad, there's no counter-argument, nothing anyone can say. "Raines won't stop. He'll never, ever stop."

"_The lost one speaks truly." _Inclining her head, Anima motions forward, addresses them all in a voice as low and dark as water. "_Now come with me, all of you. I will lead you to the Last Floor."_

* * *

><p><strong>NEXT!CHAPTER TEASER<strong>: At the foot of the Last Floor, the party licks their wounds scrambles for options. Meanwhile, Vercingetorix and Raines clash over masters, slaves and men, and the outcome is something that resonates all the way to Valhalla.

* * *

><p><strong>AN(1) – On Violence:**

I should point out that violence is a recurring theme in Door of Souls - it's not just gratuitous imagery. While the story itself is strict odyssey/quest, I use the flaws of certain characters (Kain, Lightning, Laguna in particular) to highlight the inherent contradictions of violence. It's horrible and necessary; compelling and terrifying; valorized and condemned. The questions I try and ask with these character arcs are: "What is the difference between the legitimate and illegitimate use of force?" and "What role, if any can violence play in redemption?" The aggressive characterizations take seriously that Kain, Lightning and Laguna are trained soldiers who are very comfortable killing. There are just as many reasons to be afraid of them as to care about them. I realize this is fic and not "War and Peace" but I think all (hopefully) good stories should play with ideas. :)

**A/N (2): On Alt-Canon, the FNC Gods:**

With the announcement of XIII-3, this has to go alt-canon. As a result, I will be including my expanded head!canon for the FNC universe, which prioritizes the mythology surrounding the Undying.

For those unfamiliar with the concept: the Undying Cie'th are l'Cie whose hatred of their fates renders them immortal and gives them hyperbolic power. Since fal'Cie can only be purposed to one task (the reason they make men l'Cie) my view is that the gods of FNC (Lindzei, Pulse, Etro) use the strength of spirit suggested by this obsession to select their ultimate tools. Each of them get one: Pulse gets Vercy, Lindzei gets Raines, Etro gets Lightning. Caius Ballad is an anomaly, a servant of Etro whose grief drove him insane after Etro broke the timestream. He and Raines are in a war of attrition as Raines attempts to prevent the "end of time" that will presage the return of Bhunivelze, and his ultimate doom (which is suggested by the paradox ending "Beneath a Timeless Sky" and cerain other fragments/datalog entries).

In my version of the FNC universe, Pulse is the mad god of evolution who ordered his fal'Cie to destroy all unworthy human life by giving them pointless focuses. He understands that just as Mwynn was killed by Bhunivelze, they too will be destroyed by their creations. It's why he raised the 13th ark; part of the reason for the trials of Titan – to find those worthy of ascension in the next cycle of godhood. So while Lindzei wants to prevent Bhunivelze's rise/fall and Etro is ignorant of the consequences (She is canonically an idiot, per the FNC vid, the first Analect, etc.), Pulse only wants to ensure that the strongest survive – that the successor gods are worthy. He sent Vercy to take a look at Lightning, not destroy her. Lindzei still needs him to get to the Last Floor so they're in a kind of uneasy alliance at the moment, but it's not likely to hold. ;)

**A/N(3)**: Just like II and IV are connected worlds, so are X and VII. It's the whole reason for Yuna and Aerith's connection.


	19. Update Notification

Notification:

(**A/N**): **OMG SORRY:** See bolded text. As you may have noticed, regular updates to this piece have more or less ceased. A combination of things have contributed to this, not the least of which – for those who know me – has been a wild work schedule, assorted and sundry family issues, and a collaborative piece of original work (with the unutterably remarkable Ms. S. pin, who is talented beyond reason) that has sucked up a significant portion of my free writing time. I truly wish I could just quit my rather relentless day job and split my time evenly writing all the stories I want – both fic and not – but unfortunately blech, bills.

Anyway, rambling aside, this note is to advise you that I have not given up on _Door of Souls. _Updates will be slower, but it will get done. I have rather significant portions of the next chapter "War or Gardens" done in draft format, and the entire resolution to the story is fully plotted and final. I just need to get it on paper. I hope to have something to post sometime in February, even if it's only the first half of a planned bifurcated chapter.

I would like to express my sincere gratitude for all for your continued support, reviews, PMs etc. that I haven't, in some cases, been able to respond to. They truly mean the world to me, and I just want you to know that this piece doesn't exist without you and your kind words. Thanks for sticking with me, despite the delays.

All the best,

~ Poison


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